


This Heart Bleeds Grey

by Nerdymum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3209780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdymum/pseuds/Nerdymum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NaTasha Adaar is an unexpected figurehead for the Inquisition.  How she came to be is an even more unlikely story.  Rated M for adult situations.  Dragon Age, all recognizable names, places, and themes are sole property of BioWare.  All OC identities are property of the author.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This Heart Bleeds Grey

Chapter 1

The Iron Bull stared at the Inquisitor, several thoughts weighing in his mind as he watched her swing the large drakestone axe around the marble column.  A hefty “chunk” sounded when the blade made contact, spraying rock shrapnel out in a wide arc.  He began to regret insulting her upon their first meeting.

           True, she wasn’t full-blooded Qunari, nor was she even “blessed” to be called Qunari due to her open rejection of the Qun.  The tanned complexion belied her ancestry and the shortened tapering of her ears flat-out revealed her half-blood status.  But she surprised him.  Her knowledge of the battlefield and her stamina which allowed her to keep up with warriors such as him or Blackwall made him constantly perform double-takes in her direction.

           She pulled the axe out of the column, checked the blade’s edge, then carefully sat it down into the weapon’s wrack before untying the long rope of dark gray hair from around the circumference of her head.  The thick length traveled down her broad back and stopped in a wispy tassel right in the middle of her backside.  He felt a stirring in his loins, a need to “conquer” her in a very sexual way.  However, he knew he wasn’t in her favor.  He also knew that if he tried to suggest “letting off some steam” that the axe which she had swung with the ease of a child wielding a small stick would’ve hacked off his proud horns with a surgeon’s precision.

           “Inquisitor,” he stepped closer and tried to hide his sudden desire behind a stiff smile.  “May I invite you to the tavern for a drink?”

           NaTasha Adaar turned her head to glance over her shoulder, bright pink eyes glaring in the afternoon sun.  Him again, she thought with sarcasm, and she felt her lips barely form a sneer.  Her gaze flickered up and down his tall, bulky form, both a study and a challenge on her end.

           Months of hearing his prattling about how superior Qunari were to Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth in general made her wonder why she even agreed to let the Chargers be a part of the Inquisition’s information resources.  But they did prove their worth time and time again.  It was only recently, after the flight from Haven and her being named the Inquisitor when Skyhold was reestablished, did his critical comments of her mixed blood and Vashoth status begin to wane.

           She wasn’t quick to forgive and she certainly wouldn’t be forgetting any time soon.  His insults hurt her, though, Andraste forbid, she’d admit that to him.  She let Varric in on how his words smarted her pride and the dwarf was openly sympathetic.  As a matter of fact, the gentle pat of his hand on hers still resonated in her soul.

There were few in the small circle of warriors, mages, and rogues which she trusted with her private life.  Varric was one, despite the fact she knew that anything she said to him would’ve been fodder for his stories, but that didn’t seem to bother her too much.  The Tevinter mage Dorian, the arrogant little prick, was actually a breath of fresh air away from the group.  He was the kind of brutal honesty that didn’t bother her as much as it intrigued.  He could easily tell her that the horn rings she chose that day looked utterly ridiculous and she would only laugh while she changed them to a different set.

But the Iron Bull… The Ben-Hassrath Qunari who seemed to be proud of the fact that he saw himself above everyone else, including her, rubbed her the wrong way.  Oh, no, she wouldn’t let him forget that he basically called her an unclean savage.  If anyone was savage it was the way he took pleasure in hacking away at their enemy even after they had expired.  She saw that look of bloodlust on his face when he decapitated a Red Templar knight.  It bothered her when she stopped to think about it.

“I have to meet up with Josephine,” she responded to his question.  “Things to discuss.  Political things.”

No, she had no meeting scheduled with Josephine.  She could feel the lie creeping from her mind to her face, screwing her features into a sour, wrinkled expression.

Bull’s brow lowered slowly, like butter melting in the sun, before freezing in place.  He knew she was lying.

“Political things can’t wait?” he challenged.  His arms flexed instinctively.

NaTasha focused on his one good eye and allowed a weak smirk to cross her full lips.

“Not when you’re me.”

She turned on her heels, gray braid flipping like a whip in the air, and headed up the stairs into the fortress.

For the first time in years Bull felt the sting of rejection and knew that she had intended for it to hurt.

NaTasha hid away in her quarters, relieved that the closed door offered her a sanctuary to decompress and shed her stoic demeanor.  She let her stiff posture drop and sighed wearily.  Her hands shook as she rubbed her fingertips over her temples, attempting to ease the tension headache that was beginning to form.  Everything hurt, and it wasn’t the general stiffness of post-battle aches and pains.  This was stress, fatigue, and general malaise from being overwhelmed.

She still didn’t want this job.  It was too much and, as often as she told those who called for her aid or sang her praises, she wasn’t the Herald of Andraste or this holy Inquisitor with god-like influence.  Her persona was the result of her advisors and their word spreading like wildfire all over Thedas.  Townspeople would cheer, throw flowers and songs into the air, as she led small armies through their village limits.  They called her “Your Worship” or “Most Blessed” and all she could do was sit astride the massive draft horse dressed in the same red metal armor she sported and keep her focus straight ahead.

           It was too much for a simple mercenary, she decided.  But no one else would take the reins so she figured she had no choice but to be some nearly-mythological figurehead in this crazy trend.

           The quiet knock at her door had her jumping in surprise and instinctively reach for her weapon.  She remembered placing it in a rack, dropping her empty hands to her side.  Her heart skipped and her eyes rolled as she thought about how ridiculous she would’ve looked if anyone was there to see her pointless motion.  It took quite a bit to catch her off guard but lately, due to the pomp and circumstance of this “job”, she found herself being abnormally jumpy.

           “Who is it?” she asked in a gruff voice.  If it was Bull she was prepared to tell him to sod off and go stick a rake handle in his ass.

           “Only the best looking man in this whole damn hold,” Dorian’s smooth voice filtered through the wood.   

           Her dark frown lightened as she smiled and opened the door to allow the cock-sure mage into her quarters.

           He looked her up and down, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised, then snorted a short giggle before walking past her into the room.

           “You have the look of someone prepared to perform a disemboweling and probably like it,” he observed.

           ‘Tasha rubbed the back of her neck and followed him up the stone stairs.

           “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked kindly.

           “Oh, you’re asking to help me?  Why, how kind of you to always think of others, my dear, giant goddess!” he teased and took a seat on a blue brocade settee.  “No, NaTasha.  I was simply on my way to the gardens when I happen to notice that you were rushing back to your quarters with a rather disgruntled look on your face.  Normally, I would leave you alone for fear that you might practice flaying your enemies alive on me, but something about your sulking made me think that you could possibly use someone to complain to.  And here I am, gifting you with the privilege to bend my ear.”

           NaTasha shook her head and felt her cheeks blush.

           “Only you could get away with that amount of arrogance and have me think you’re being sweet,” she teased and offered him a sip of rare Orlesian brandy which he took with open thanks.

           “And only you could wear that ghastly Vitaar over your pretty face and make me think you’re making a fashion statement.  Therefore, we’re even.”

           They both laughed and fell quiet as she thought back on what it was that made her so melancholy.

           “I’m tired of feeling like I have to prove my worth to others when I never asked to be judged,” she admitted.  “And I don’t want to keep a hold of grudges but…”

           “Ah,” Dorian sang and sat his glass down on a small inn table at his right.  “I know where this is going.”

           “You do?” ‘Tasha’s voice uncharacteristically squeaked.  She quickly cleared her throat to divert her own attention away from the sudden embarrassment.

           “Bull has been talking quite a lot about you lately.”

           Her eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened as her frustration returned.

           “Has he, now?” she grumbled.

           Dorian chuckled and reached over to take her thick braid into his hands, carefully undoing the long strands of slate-colored hair as he talked.

           “So, this is about him!  Interesting,” he mused and pursed his lips.

           “Just tell me what the cad has said.”

           “Oh, nothing of great importance,” he carefully pulled her shoulders around so her back faced him and continued to undo the long rope.  His hands were suddenly filled with a bounty of rich hair so smooth and soft it rivaled the feel of fine silk.  He knew that the warrioress had a secret feminine side to her and he was lucky enough to be a witness to it.  “I overheard him one evening as he was talking to Krem.  The subject of you came up, and, surprisingly enough, it wasn’t about you being our fearless leader.  Krem called you ‘pretty’ in a ‘covered in the blood of our enemies’ sort of way.  Bull’s response was simply ‘she is untouchable’.  I thought it rather funny; most certainly now considering that I’m here in your room and touching you quite intimately.”

           “Intimately?” she smirked.

           “How many other men have been privileged to touch the hair of the Inquisitor?”

           “And you think that makes you special?” she taunted again.

           “Of course it does!” he chuckled.  “Was there ever any inclination in your mind that I wasn’t?”  He began to brush her hair, gently pulling the comb from the top of her scalp clear down to the ends.

           NaTasha let her eyes flutter shut and allowed a soft sigh to escape her mouth.  It felt so good!  The last person to brush her hair in such a luxurious way was her mother.  A slight pensive feeling crept into her heart as she thought about her doting parent.

           “By the way, not to be nosy, although I am about to be, what is it about Bull that irritates you?” he interrupted her reminiscing.  His lithe fingers began to braid the shimmering grey strands, forming delicate cornrows along her hair and horn line.

           “You don’t know?” she asked in a surprised tone.

           “’Tasha, my love, I’m not Leliana.  I don’t spy on everything here despite my love of gossip from time to time.”

           “He called my mother an unclean savage since she claimed Tal-Vashoth.”

           “And that means,” he prodded and started on another section of hair.

           “Don’t you know about Qunari?”

           “While the Imperium has had history with Qunari, that doesn’t make me an expert in their society anymore than living in the Free Marches has made you a specialist in Kirkwall politics.”

           NaTasha sighed and glanced down at her hands.  She picked absently at a raised callous while she revealed how Iron Bull insulted her.

           “Tal-Vashoth reject the Qun in order to live their own lives away from Qunari tribes.  Qunari view them as unclean beasts, even hunt them down and kill them in cold blood if they can’t convert them back under Qun Law.  Calling my mother a beast means that I’m nothing more than a weak animal in his eyes.”

           “Since when did his opinion matter?” Dorian snorted in derision.  “You seem quite civilized in my eyes.”

           NaTasha didn’t respond to his compliment.

           “You never have told me much about your life before the Inquisition,” he prodded.

           “There isn’t much to tell,” she shrugged.  “I was born in the Free Marches, learned blacksmithing from my father and martial arts from my mother, and, when I was old enough, joined the Valo-kas company.  Some things happened, more things happened, the Temple of Sacred Ashes happened, and, now, the Inquisition is happening.”

           “If that isn’t the most dismissive response to my curiosity!” he laughed.  “Alright then, how did your parents meet?  I don’t think there are many half-Qunari, half-human individuals running around Thedas.  Although, I could be wrong; but you are the first I’ve met.”

           “That actually is a more interesting story.”

           “I’m listening,” he smiled.

           “It’s a long story,” she warned.

           “I’m sure we have time.”

           She took a deep breath and wondered where to begin.  A smile touched her lips as she thought back on how her father told her how he fell for her mother.  It was a good place to start, she figured.

O . . . O . . . O

           Kirkwall was a large city, a shining pearl along the sea with a rather dark inner shell.  But the rumors of the decay and poverty didn’t deter him from setting up his stall next to a couple of dwarven metallurgists.  He smiled and greeted them with a friendly wave before opening the small wall of leather parcels to reveal the assortment of fine blades and weapons in his possession.  He gave the weary horse an apple to munch on while he waited for customers to begin pouring into the market square.  In his unscathed sight, the future looked bright and all of Thedas was his for the taking.

           “Nice wares ya have there,” a deep, but cheerful voice spoke up over his inner monologue of how rich he presumed to be by the end of the week.  “Could use some touching up on how to follow through with the blade tip, but you know how to work your metals, ser.”

           He looked down and noticed one of the dwarven merchants who was in the next stall and smiled.

           “Many thanks, Master Dwarf.  I just finished my apprenticeship under Lord Aldrich Yowers of Wycome.  And, thanks to my new career, I decided to take my talents on the road with me.  What better place to start than Kirkwall?”

           The dwarf picked up a heavy but not particularly ornate dagger and rubbed his bearded chin in thought.

           There were much better places a fresh-faced kid could start than Kirkwall, but he needed to learn about the cruelty of the world sooner than later.  He did possess some skill, even if it was apparent that his smith-work was somewhat clumsy.

           “Mm,” he grumbled through the bristles of his mustache and hefted the dagger’s weight around in his palm.  “I’ll be honest with ya, young ser, you’re not going to get rich overnight.   My brother and I have been at this business for close to fifty years and sometimes we go to bed hungry.  Even now.”

           The young man didn’t let the depressing hit of reality shake him from his dreams.  He could be different, he figured.  He would be that rare case in which the Maker smiled and chose to let Fate be kind.  With an abundance of pride, he continued to set out his wares.

           “What’s your given name?” the dwarf asked and gently sat the dagger back down on the make-shift table.

           “Kerrin.  Kerrin Donnegal,” he shook his new friend’s hand.

           “Well met, Kerrin.  I’m Rumil and my brother over there is Bruttas,” he pointed to a grey-speckle bearded dwarf in the thick brocade tunic.

           Bruttas gave a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders in greeting as Kerrin waved to him.

           “Don’t mind him,” Rumil smiled when he noticed the tightening in the young human’s face.  “He’s grumpy no matter how he’s feeling.”

           “Then I shall not take offense.”

           The market day finally started as the sound of the large city bell struck the top of the hour.  Kerrin nearly bounced out of his boots from excitement but decided it best to keep his face, and his body, proud.  He could already imagine himself sitting next to the hearth in a warm inn counting the large stacks of gold.

           But the gold barely trickled into his hands by the end of the day.  There was just enough to pay for his market stall rental and possibly for a mug of cheap beer.  With deep disappointment, Kerrin packed up his wares and hoisted them onto his wagon.

           “How’d ya do, Kerrin?” Rumil asked over the sound of blades clanking against each other.

           With sad eyes, Kerrin regarded his new friend and showed him the meager earnings.

           “I don’t think I have enough to feed Nellie the bag of oats I promised her.  Perhaps tomorrow.”

           Rumil shook his head and hummed in pity.

           “That’s a shame, kid.  Don’t let a bad day ruin you.  Business comes and goes.  Some days it feels as though you’ll starve to death before you see your next coin, but then some days make you feel like you’ve struck a gold mine.”

           The dwarf slid a large coin onto the empty table and began to walk away.

           Kerrin stared at the offering in surprise.

           “I can’t accept this, ser,” he called out.

           “Give it to Nellie for her oats.  She’ll need it if you’re going to come back tomorrow.”

           A warm feeling filled Kerrin and he smiled as he patted the horse’s ruddy flank.

           “Perhaps things won’t be so bad.  Ey, girl?”

           The mare grumbled in agreement, large eyes blinking slowly.

           Kerrin hopped onto the bench of his cart and stared up at the night sky, another foolish smile plastered on his face.  He continued to dream about becoming the greatest blacksmith in all of the Free Marches.  But why stop there, he pondered.  Why not the greatest blacksmith in Ferelden?  Or even Orlais?  Or, Maker bless him, all of Thedas?  It didn’t take him long to drift off to sleep, and, when he did, he dreamed of wearing coats embroidered in gold and bridles of silk for Nellie.

 

              

              

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Kerrin packed up his cart and sighed wearily. He had done everything he could to make a few coins but nothing, including dropping his prices to the point he was practically giving his wares away, helped. He gave Nellie the last handful of oats before hopping onto the driving bench and grabbing the reins.

"Hey, wait! Where are you going?" Rumil called out.

Kerrin glanced down at the dwarf and offered a weak smile.

"Back to Wycome. I know I can get a job with Master Yowers when I return. At least I can make a living there. This idea was foolish."

"Aw, don't give up, kid. You've barely been here a week. It gets better. Come on down; I'll buy you a beer," Rumil offered.

"No, thanks, ser, but I'm going to pass. It's several days traveling back home and the sooner I start on that path the better."

"What if I told you there's another way to make a fortune for yourself here in Kirkwall's market?" the dwarf's voice carried up to him in a hurried tone.

Desperation, and curiosity, made Kerrin look back down.

"And how would I do that?" he asked and tried to ignore his belly grumbling with the need to eat.

"The real money isn't in selling what you have, kid. It's in the things you don't sell," a sly smile crept crookedly.

"I don't understand."

"Come on down here and I'll explain it to you over a nice mug of ale. And we can set Nellie up in a stall for the night. If you don't like what I have to offer, feel free to head home. But I think you'll see that this is an opportunity you can't pass up."

Kerrin sighed wearily and hopped down from the wagon. He gently took off Nellie's harness and began to lead her toward the town stables. He thumbed the last few coins in his pocket and secretly hoped that he wasn't making a mistake.

…..

"And that's all you have to do," Rumil smiled before taking a hefty sip from his tankard.

"Wait just a moment," Kerrin ran a hand through his short black hair, tufts of it sticking straight up after he let go. He resembled a rather disgruntled owl. "All I have to do is give a small package to a certain gentleman when he gives me this code word, and then you'll pay me a percentage after he pays you?"

"You got it, kid. Just give him the package and when we get back from our meeting we'll give you 30% for your trouble. Easiest made money in the world."

"What's in the package?"

"Medicinal components," Rumil shrugged. "Just remember; you cannot report the exchange to the Market Master."

"Why not?"

"Because it's, er, complicated. Listen; this gentleman needs this package for his son who is sick. He can't go to the Chantry or there will be too many questions asked and his son may die. And he can't go to the mages or else his kid will be treated like some magical experiment. The only relief his kid gets is from the medicine in these packages, which I supply. And, since I won't be here to give it to him the day after tomorrow, I need you to take my place."

"You wouldn't trust anyone else to something this sensitive?" Kerrin's dark eyes narrowed.

"In this place? Are you kidding?" Rumil laughed heartily. "By the Paladins, no! Too many greedy bastards here who would try to capitalize on this poor man's bad luck and on my generosity. I trust you because I see a good heart in you, Kerrin. You seem to me to be the type who would want to help people in unfortunate positions. You get to do that very thing while also making a little extra money for yourself."

"What if I don't agree to this arrangement?"

"Then this unfortunate soul will have to go down darker paths to get the thing he needs just so his son can function normally. I don't want to see that happen. Do you? You have any idea what kind of danger lurks in Kirkwall's alleys? Things are bad enough in Lowtown, but have you been to Darktown? Makes me shiver just to think about the horrors that exist in that filthy pit."

A wave of guilt and pity filled Kerrin. He did want to help others; his parents taught him that it was important to help, including those who may have more monetarily speaking. Pain and death affected everyone, not just the destitute.

"Alright, ser-"

"Kid, we're on friendly terms," he interrupted. "Please, just Rumil, okay?"

"Alright, er, Rumil. I will help you with this package," Kerrin agreed.

Rumil patted him on the shoulder, nearly knocking the socket out of the joint, and smiled with appreciation. "Thanks a lot, kid. You won't be sorry!"

Another emotional wave gripped hold of Kerrin's heart; doubt. He truly hoped he wouldn't be sorry for agreeing to this most unusual arrangement. But if someone needed help then who was he to question?

Rumil paid for a room at the tavern for the boy, waving the last bit of change away when Kerrin tried to pay. The dwarf said he would take the amount off the share when they were paid. For the first time in many long days Kerrin slept in a warm bed. He dreamed, once more, of becoming rich. And, this time, despite the dark, lingering shadows of doubt swimming in his mind, he would become wealthy by helping someone with unfortunate circumstances. The Maker would smile upon him and bless him for his kindness. He would make his family proud. Things would finally start coming around for the better!

…..

The Package was a small, wooden box wrapped securely in bleached linen and tied with twine. It didn't look all that important, but the way Rumil handled it made Kerrin wonder if rare jewels lay inside. He glanced up after the box was placed in his hands and watched Bruttas shake his head, steel blue eyes narrowed in disapproval. He had tried to be friendly to Rumil's brother but he could never breach the other dwarf's chilly exterior.

"And this gentleman will know me how?" he asked as he watched Rumil untie the bright red awning of his market stall.

"By this," Rumil unfolded a small red flag. He began to tie it on Kerrin's stall post and continued to talk. "This is my family's crest. He'll see this on your stall and know you are the one he seeks."

Kerrin tried not to let his face break into the laugh he so desperately wanted to let loose. Unfortunately, an amused snort escaped his nose before he could stop it. Embroidered on the rich red velveteen was a detailed image of a nug wearing dwarven armor.

"What?" Rumil asked in an accusatory lilt, an insulted glare gleamed in his green eyes.

"N-nothing, ser, er, Rumil," Kerrin shook his head quickly and bit down on his lips to force the bubble of laughter back down.

"Now, remember. The gentleman is a noble but won't wish to show his wealth, so he'll probably be wearing a disguise. He'll ask you about the price of fire opals and your response is…"

"Twelve gold for an ounce," he answered back.

"Good! Then you simply slip him the package while he hands you another little box just like the one you're giving him. He'll send a courier to pay us when we return, and, after that, you will get your portion of the paycheck. Sound good to you?"

Kerrin nodded and stepped sheepishly back behind his stall to await the beginning of the market day. He watched Bruttas lock their stall before shoving a large knapsack up his meaty arms.

"Let's go, Rumil," he grumbled and started walking out of the market square.

"Best of luck to ya, kid. We'll see you in a week," Rumil smiled warmly then walked toward his brother.

Kerrin took a deep breath and glanced down at the nug-graced flag. Dwarven runes curved under its feet spelling out something that he couldn't decipher. He assumed it was Rumil's family name. The bell rang loudly and the shopkeepers all came to attention. Across the way he could hear the Orlesian fabrics broker singing her "top of the morning" aria. Slowly, the Kirkwall patrons flowed into the square. He glanced down at the Package, drumming his fingers on the top of his table, and decided to polish a few pieces in order to pass the time away while he waited for customers.

He had made little money that day, but to make himself feel better he went to visit Nellie and offered her an apple as a treat. Gently, he patted her velvety nose and rested his head against her wide flank.

"Did we make the right decision, girl? Is staying here our fate or should we had just gone home?"

The smell of apple and horse lather wafted up his nose. Nellie's response was simply a low horsey grumble as she bent down to gather up the bits of fruit that had fallen from her lips.

"I suppose we'll find out, yes? Perhaps we'll just take the money Rumil gives us and go about our business. Leave Kirkwall and go visit the rest of the Marches. I hear Tantervale is nice. Or even Starkhaven. Does that sound good to you?"

Nellie munched on a few strands of hay, slowly blinking her large, liquidy eyes at him. Kerrin offered her a smile then walked out of the stables and into the nearby inn to take advantage of the last night Rumil had paid for him. Every now and then he would shove a hand into his pocket to make sure that the little box was still secure. That night he didn't dream of riches and fine clothing. He worried about the Package and what secrets it held.

Surely, a doctor could've helped this gentleman, he thought. What could possibly be so important and so dangerous that a man would risk being killed in the alleys in order to buy? He had heard of addictive substances but it was usually the addict who risked their lives to feed the monkey on their backs. Why would a father feed a son's addiction? Or were the contents of the Package even drugs?

When he finally found rest his dreams were dull and colorless. Sleep offered him no repose. The next day would either give him answers or drown his mind with more.

When the morning arrived he found himself plagued with worry and anxiety. His hands trembled and he managed to drop more than his share of goods. More than once he fixed the nug-blessed flag on his stall and tried to see if he could find out who this gentleman was just by scanning the busy crowd. Hours went by followed by more hours with no one fitting Rumil's description of the man who was supposed to meet him. He was just about to close down shop when a soft voice spoke up to him.

"Forgive me, ser, but I was wondering if you happened to know the price of fire opals."

For a second Kerrin's mind blanked. His mouth went dry and he stared with a stupid, glazed expression at the stranger.

"Fire opals… fire opals… Oh! Fire opals!" he snapped his fingers and smiled like a fool. "Yes, ah, they are 12 gold for an ounce, ser!"

The gentleman was of middle age with dark grey eyes and average height and girth. He wore a threadbare black cloak with a hood shadowing some of his features. He probably would've been handsome if his face didn't show so much age and wear from stress.

Kerrin grabbed the Package out of a hidden compartment in his cart and was prepared to hand it over. As he stood back up, his wrist smacked against the edge of the table and knocked the small box out of his grasp. The gentleman's face broke open with absolute fear as the box began to fall.

With a low groan, Kerrin dove for the Package and, with a hidden burst of agility and speed he didn't realize he had, caught it before it hit the ground. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"So sorry, ser," he offered an apology.

The gentleman took the Package and handed over the second box, a deep scowl wrinkling his face.

"Try to be more careful next time," he grumbled before leaving.

Kerrin leaned wearily against the stall and tried to slow his heart. He expected more from the exchange. What that was he wasn't sure. Magic? The Templars to come racing in and shackle him? The answer to what exactly rested in the unassuming box? He absently flipped at the nug flag and found himself slightly disappointed. He shoved the empty box into his pocket then began to close down his stall.

…..

Rumil approached Kerrin's stall and flung a leather coin pouch onto his table. The human's eyes widened as he glanced into the purse and saw a multitude of glittering rounds hiding within.

"I promised you 30% of the profit, right? One hundred twenty five gold and 30 silver is your share."

Kerrin's mouth dropped open and he stared at Rumil dumbly.

"See? I told ya, kid. Easiest money made!" he dug his thumbs under his wide belt and posed proudly.

"I can go home and have a little bit left," Kerrin smiled.

"What? Go home? You wanna leave now?" the dwarf sputtered. "Kerrin, look inside that purse one more time. You can make that again! As a matter of fact, I'm willing to let you remain my client's contact. All you have to do is the same as before. Switch the boxes and I pay you."

"But I had my mind set on going back to Wycome," Kerrin clutched the purse to his heart.

"Why? What for?" Rumil chuckled and waved his arms out wide before the expanse of the market square. "Look at this place! You said so yourself when you first got here; what better place to start than Kirkwall, right? You could make yourself a small fortune here. And, ya gotta remember; you're helping someone out. Helping a random, unnamed man ease the pain of his poor, sickly son. It's a good feeling."

"But why would you want me to remain the contact? Wouldn't you want to keep all the money for yourself?" Kerrin asked and peered into the pouch once more.

"Because I can't always be here. I accepted a position within my homeland's merchant guild. I was named a lieutenant for the Orzammar Exchange which means there will be periods where I won't be in Kirkwall for months at a time. I trust you and the money is a small sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Kerrin felt Rumil's stare piercing into his soul. He felt obligated to take the job. The pouch was shoved into his tunic's pocket and he sighed a weary, defeated breath.

"Alright. I suppose I can stay and help you."

Rumil smiled proudly and thanked the boy before prancing back to his booth. From across the stall, Kerrin caught Bruttas' disapproving stare and watched the elder shake his head. A pang of regret and guilt hit him. He sheepishly walked to his cart and began to take an inventory of the remaining goods he had reserved.

Six Months had passed and Kerrin made enough money to buy himself a small apartment in Lowtown. Nellie resided happily in the Hightown city stables where she proceeded to get fat off barley, oats, and alfalfa when he could spare the money. He continued to be the "gentleman's" contact, carefully switching out filled freshly filled boxes with the mystery substance for empty ones. Each time Kerrin never pried beneath the Package's wrappings to discover what the secret was. And each time Rumil was paid Kerrin received a purse full of money.

Whispers were beginning to be heard within the taverns he frequented. There were rumors of black market lyrium being used by members of upper crust society and it was being purchased in the open at the market square. No one was absolutely sure of who was selling it, but Kerrin began to question if it was him. Would Rumil actually use him? He considered the dwarf a good friend.

One evening, after Rumil gave him a new Package, he took it back to his apartment and decided to let curiosity take over. Carefully, he untied the twine from around the linen and pulled the small box out into the candlelight. With a slow, steady hand, he unlocked it, holding his breath in his chest until his lungs aches.

Resting inside was a syringe with a long, thin needle, a small glass vessel that contained a silvery liquid substance, and a rubber tube with a black pump on the end. On the glass bottle was "99% pure processed content" written in Rumil's sharp, simplistic handwriting. Kerrin's hands shook. Before he dropped the contents, he quickly slammed the lid shut and pushed it away.

It was lyrium. Extremely potent and possibly deadly lyrium; and he was dealing it.

"Oh, Maker, no!" he whispered. "What- what am I doing?"

He rewrapped the box and stood back from it as though it were a poisonous snake.

"I can't do this anymore," he vowed. "No more."

The next morning he handed the Package back over to Rumil along with the armored nug flag. Rumil regarded him in shock.

"What are you doing?" the dwarf asked.

"This isn't right," Kerrin said in a shaking voice. "I-I know what you're doing and I won't be a part of it any longer. I'm going back to Wycome. I thank you for trying to help me with my financial issues, but I- just- no more. Please. Thank you. Ser."

He watched Rumil's face change colors from red to purple to a pale grayish white.

"You looked in the Package, didn't you?" he asked in a calm tone.

"I-I did. And, because you did help me, I won't tell the authorities what you are doing so long as you leave me in peace and don't ask anymore of me."

Rumil backed away slowly, his eyes locked on Kerrin in seething anger.

"Very well, lad. If that's what you wish, then so be it."

Kerrin exhaled in relief and walked back to his stall. A massive weight lifted off his heart. He continued with his work until the end of the day came around.

 _Tomorrow_ , he decided, _I shall leave Kirkwall behind and go home. Nellie deserves to go home._

No sooner did he finish his thoughts of returning to the haven of his hometown did a heavy hand drop on his shoulder.

"Alright, kid, let's go!" a gruff voice barked as Kerrin was nearly thrown off his feet.

"Wh-whoah, wait! What? Who are you?" he stuttered. Handcuffs were locked over his wrists and he was pushed forward again.

"Kirkwall Guard. You're being placed under arrest for illegal lyrium trafficking."

Kerrin was escorted out of the market square, with many onlookers gawking at him, and wondered why his luck was so rubbish.

O . . . O . . . O

NaTasha examined her hair in the mirror and admired the way the lines of braids ran down her scalp.

"Your father had no idea that he was selling highly concentrated lyrium?" Dorian asked. He brushed a strand of her hair off a pant leg before standing up.

"Not until it was too late," she replied. "My father was, in his youth, too trusting of others and didn't bother questioning the morals of his peers. He thought that if he was honest then they would be honest back to him."

"Too bad he had to discover the contrary the hard way. What happened to the dwarves?"

She turned back around to answer him when the sound of the War Room horn blasting through the walls interrupted her. A groan escaped her nose and her head dropped.

"A tale for later. I guess I better go see who needs what this time."

"I thought you realized by now that no one here can do anything on their own without your permission, Inquisitor," Dorian smirked. "Including going to the lavatory."

'Tasha rolled her eyes at him before showing him down the stairs of her quarters to the door.

"Please, don't call me that. I detest that title a little more every day."

"My apologies," he flashed a gentle, sympathetic smile. "But I will hold you to your word. I want to hear what happened to your father. And you still haven't told me how he met your mother."

"I'll track you down the next time Bull tries to get me to have a drink with him. It'll be a valid excuse."

The mage's musical laughter echoed through the main hall.

"You're a wicked woman. And I accept being your escape plan. Although, I expect to be paid back some way."

"Name it," NaTasha eyed him suspiciously.

"A full bottle of that Orlesian brandy."

"Deal!" she shook his hand on the promise.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter3

The splash of blood glittered like liquid rubies on the edge of the battleaxe. With each swing more of the warm fluid flew into the air followed by a roar and the sound of bone and sinew being broken and torn.

"What" -whack!- "in" -whack!- "Andraste's" -crunch!- "girdle" -ROAR!- "are these" -whack, thud!- "damn bears made of?!"

NaTasha stood over the body of the large gray bear who had lost the battle against her and the rest of her small crew. She stumbled back, drew her axe out of the bear's skull, and wiped her blood-spattered brow, smearing some of the fresh Vitaar from her forehead. There was almost no part of the Great Bear left to salvage but, as she quickly learned from her first mercenary group; waste not, want not.

Varric was already pulling the large claws out of the animal's paws while Blackwall checked to see how much meat could be used. Dorian, on the other hand, was tiptoeing out of the way as a river of blood ran down a path in the dry earth toward him.

"Granite, I'll wager," he snorted in disgust as the Grey Warden dove head first into the chest cavity. "I do hope there are plans for proper hygiene after this pointless scouting is over."

"What's the matter, Sparkler? Do dead bears bother your delicate sensibilities?" Varric teased as he began to shear the skin from the animal.

"I'll have you know that if blood or any other interesting juices resting within bear offal gets on this robe I'll end up smelling like death even after I try to clean it. Blood, including animal, has a way of clinging onto enchanted items, which is why certain kinds of blood magic is so easy to pull off, even for novice mages. I'm simply trying to avoid something that could be unpleasant for all parties."

"Can we skip the unwanted lesson on mages?" Blackwall grumbled. "An', if you didn't want ta get dirty, why the bloody hell did you volunteer to come along?"

Dorian passed the old soldier a frigid glare before stepping closer to the fallen creature, taking care to jump over the small stream of blood.

"To irritate you, of course."

NaTasha stood up after gathering a few rib bones for weapon usage and supplies and sheathed a knife she had been using.

"Alright, children, I'd like to try and get back to camp before it gets dark. Or before one of you decides murder is an acceptable reason to end an argument," she chided.

"I shall hold my tongue for you, my lady," Blackwall smiled which caused Dorian to snort out loud again.

The tall half-qunari turned on her heels and leaned in close enough to the mage that her nose nearly brushed against his.

"Don't make me spill this gallbladder's contents down your front, Pavus," she threatened in a low, measured voice and held up the oozing organ to show just how serious she was.

"Of course," he nodded and calmly stepped aside.

After they had finished stripping the animal of all its resources, NaTasha waved them on toward the Forest Camp before slinging a large parcel on her back. The sun was just beginning to surrender to evening, leaving a brilliant painting across the majority of the sky. A small herd of fennecs scurried away from them. Their insulted little barks echoed across the valley.

"Well, since we have some time to kill, perhaps you can tell me how your father ended up in the Kirkwall jail," Dorian suggested.

"I'd prefer to have a smaller crowd when I do," she grumbled as she caught Varric's eyebrows shoot up his forehead with interest.

"Don't mind me, my lady," Blackwall spoke up in a labored breath. "I shan't say a word ta anyone."

"It's not you I'm worried about listening in on personal information."

"Ouch!" Varric slapped a meaty hand over his bared heart line. "I'm wounded, Pinky! I thought you trusted me."

She smiled a wry turn of her lips, revealing perfect, white teeth she often kept hidden behind a proud pout.

"I have never trusted you with any of the words that come out of my mouth, Tethras."

The dwarf continued to dramatically stagger a short distance, gasping and clutching his heart as if he were in pain. "How cruel you are! Why carry that big, scary axe when you can simply beat a man to death with brutal honesty?"

"I carry that big, scary axe to shut up those who don't take my brand of honesty kindly."

A raspy, amused chuckle came from Varric. "Point well taken, Pinky."

There was a pause of quiet before NaTasha decided to continue with her story. She would deal with Varric's desire to use her tale for a new book later.

"My father tried to tell the Guard that he was innocent of the accused crimes, but Kirkwall wasn't known as the most just place in the Marches. He was placed before a judge who didn't seem to have time to hear his plea and, before he knew it, was thrown into the prison located near the Gallows. Most of the prisoners had one of two choices; either pay the bail, which was priced so high it was nearly impossible to pay, or be hanged for their crimes.

"There were no formal trials, no chance to prove innocence. The prisoners who didn't have those two options had one. Execution. That was usually reserved for murderers and rapists. And since my father was neither he tried to look at his situation positively. He figured that the money he saved from the exchanges could be enough to pay for his way out, but he needed to find a way to get it to the bailiff."

O . . . O . . . O

The cells were cold, despite the fact that it was a blazing summer outside. He had heard stories and often passed them off as simply cliché, but Kerrin began to wonder if it was simple truth.

Druffalo are big and dangerous, gold is shiny, and jail cells are just cool enough to make you shiver but not freeze.

He tried huddling up into the half-wet piles of straw in one corner but the smell and the dampness made him decide otherwise. Something had to be done in order to gain his freedom. In a matter of speaking, he was innocent. Yes, he was an accessory to crime, but he didn't know what he was dealing until it was too late.

And that got him thinking. It wasn't long after he told Rumil he was out of the game that the Guard came after him. Did Rumil, a man he considered a friend, rat him out to spite him for not agreeing to handle his dirty business any longer?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of more guards entering the cell block. Their grunts and growls suggested they were fighting with someone of decent size, or strength, or both.

"Where should we put it?" one mumbled in a breathless tone.

"Stick the brute in with the new boy. Y'know, the 'innocent' black market dealer," the second one chuckled.

Kerrin scrambled up to see what was going on but found himself quickly shoved back down, hard, as the cell door was swung open. He heard a low growl, the sound of chains rattling, then the cell door being slammed shut.

"Let the damn thing rot in there!" the first guard snorted as he walked away.

Kerrin pushed himself back up and realized he had company. A large, bulky frame sat in the right-hand side of the cell; who it was he couldn't tell due to the darkness that hovered within the confines.

 _Oh, please, by the Grace of Andraste, please don't let this stranger kill me_ , he prayed.

He could hear heavy breathing coming from the new presence along with the sound of something stone-like banging against the cell's walls.

"Um, h-hallo," he whispered and wondered if what he said was even loud enough to be heard by anyone.

The response was a guttural growl.

"Oh, well, a-alright, then."

"You will stay over there, bas!" a rich, possibly female, voice barked.

Kerrin narrowed his eyes in hopes of getting a better look of his cellmate. For a slight moment he could actually make out what appeared to be two sets of wide horns swooping gracefully around an angular head.

 _A Qunari! I have never met a Qunari!_ He smiled openly like a fool but quickly covered it with a hand.

"Oh, sure, right. Not, not moving," he blathered but scooted back against the left-side wall.

Another low growl came from the Qunari to express her dislike. Kerrin decided not to speak anymore that evening.

The next morning he awoke to the guards loudly banging on the bars to wake up the prisoners and "offer" them breakfast. What they actually did was throw pieces of moldy bread and rotten vegetables into the cells. Kerrin scrambled forward and grabbed a few pieces that didn't look too bad. His stomach was growling so loudly that he momentarily forgot his manners.

"Oh, um, s-sorry," he apologized to the still hidden Qunari. "Would you like this piece? It's not nearly as bad as the rest." His hand stretched out and held out a chunk of stale bread with a few suspicious green spots on the crust.

There was no verbal response. The strange clicking against the stone walls began again.

Slowly, Kerrin slunk back to his corner but left the better piece of bread on the floor for her. He carefully picked off the bad spots and devoured the food, hoping he wouldn't regret doing so.

However, he wouldn't be able to keep his stomach full for long. The spoiling and the mold ended up making him sicker than he had ever been in his life. He had no choice but to use his corner as the lavatory for both ends. The smell only sickened him to the point he simply laid in the cold, damp straw and prayed for the illness to pass. His body shook with a fever and his muscles ached. He would've done just about anything for a drink of water to soothe his burning throat.

"Ignorant bas," the Qunari grumbled under her breath.

Kerrin realized something small was placed in his hand. He cracked open a weak eye and tried to focus on the item. It was a small green leaf, wrinkled and wilted but still somewhat fresh.

"You will consume it," she demanded.

"Wh-what-" he gasped but couldn't find the strength speak further.

"Maa-Kata."

"Maa- I don't…"

"It will take the poisons from your body," she explained in an aggravated tone.

He took a second to look at the leaf again and even smiled a little when he realized what it was.

"Elfroot," he whispered then placed it in his dried mouth. It took some time to chew it up, considering his tongue felt like stiff leather and the leaf was slightly bitter, but there was a touch of mint-like refreshment in the green taste. He swallowed what he could, choked on the rest that would travel down his throat. The small, simple movements exhausted him and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

…..

He finally woke and felt revived but terribly weak. Slowly, he sat up and nearly wretched again when the smell of vomit and waste reached his nostrils. There was nothing he could do to clean it up, making him feel utterly guilty and foolish for eating the bad food. He glanced over in the corner where the Qunari rested.

Tap, tap, tap… on the wall again.

"Thank you for the medicine," he said in a raspy voice. "I probably would've died. I owe you and I'll somehow figure out a way to repay you for your kindness."

"Do not eat the food again, bas," she growled.

"Noted," he coughed and clutched to his sore stomach. He squinted to peer into the darkness and caught the faintest glimpse of shimmering pink within the shadows. "I- I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Kerrin. Kerrin Donnegal of Wycome."

"I never asked for an introduction."

"No, you didn't. But if we're going to share this space I thought it would be nice to at least know each other's names."

"I do not have a name. Individuality is the root to chaos," the Qunari snorted.

Kerrin screwed his face into a confused pout. No name? How curious! How did anyone acknowledge her?

"Well, alright, then. If you say so."

"I am Adaar," she said in a rich, assured tone. There was pride in that voice, loads of it, in fact.

"I thought you just said you don't have a name," Kerrin replied with even more confusion swarming in his tired brain.

"Adaar is not a name. It is what I am."

"Oh. What is that, exactly?"

"I craft weapons for our ships,the vessels that put your pathetic small boats to shame. The weapons are beyond compare; great mouths that spew fire at the enemy. They are Adaar and so am I."

Kerrin was slightly annoyed yet also intrigued. She spoke to him with such cool demeanor yet this was the most she had ever said to him in two days.

"I see. I think. How did you end up in here, then?"

"I will say no more to you, bas!" she snapped.

"Fine," he grumbled and rolled to his side away from her. He felt even more miserable than he did before the food poisoning and, for the first time his he was thrown into this despicable pit, felt terribly depressed. No one would be coming to free him. He had been duped. He was going to die in the Kirkwall jail for doing something that wasn't, technically, his fault.

He fell to sleep once more with tears dripping down his sweaty, soiled face and more taps against the wall echoing in the cell.

…..

He thought he was dreaming.

Kneeling next to him was the most amazing creature he had ever seen. Dark silver skin, covering tightly over a collection of strong but feminine muscles, seemed to sparkle in the dim light. Thick thatches of snow white hair sprouted from her horn-crowned scalp and spilled over her broad shoulders to rest at her breast line. She wore a thin black cloth tied around her chest to form a make-shift top but her belly was left bare. Perfectly defined abdomen muscles flexed and relaxed with each gently measured breath.

Her eyes, though, were the most impressive thing about her. As pink as a cone flowers petals, pink like rare tourmalines! So brilliant and bold! What a lovely color, that pink; the color of love, of adoration. Yet the jewel-toned irises resting in those large, thickly lashed eyes were staring down at him in disdain and mistrust.

By the Maker, she was beautiful! This was a Qunari goddess come to him, to take him to the Afterlife, he thought through the dream.

But his sudden adoration was ended when he felt pain cracking like lightning across his cheek. He yelped and opened his eyes fully to focus upon his companion.

"Wake up, bas Kerrin Donnegal!" she hissed and glanced up in the direction of the cell door.

Kerrin rubbed his warm cheek and sat up, confused and suddenly afraid. He saw for the briefest second worry flashing in her eyes and wondered what was wrong. A Qunari warrior, he assumed that's what she was for she never truly explained what she did, shouldn't have allowed fear to reach her face. But he saw it. And if she was scared then he needed to be as well.

"What is it?" he asked when he finally found his voice.

"The guards have taken a human away. I can hear angry chanting outside."

"Oh. Well, that probably means he's to be hanged. Crimes are sometimes punishable by death," Kerrin shrugged.

"Do your people not recondition criminals?" she asked.

"Recondition? I don't understand what that means."

"Forced to be free of any thoughts, to become a worker. He can still serve a purpose, can he not? Is the only solution of dealing with his crime to be his death?"

"It depends on what that was. If he's a madman and murdered several others, then no."

Adaar's eyes widened again and he saw that fear once more.

"No. I heard the guards call him 'thief'. There was no mention of murder."

It suddenly dawned on Kerrin why she was afraid. His mouth dropped open as he sang in understanding.

"I see now. You were… did they arrest you for stealing?"

Adaar snorted and shook her horn-crowned head proudly. "They call it stealing! They did not own the metals themselves and no one else showed ownership or concern."

"But you stole metal from someone?" his brow rose on his forehead.

"Must I repeat myself, bas?" she scoffed. "There was no one to claim ownership! The mine was empty!"

"You-you took metal ore from a mine?" he tried to hide his amused smile.

"I wish not to discuss this subject further!" Adaar retreated for her side of the cell and hid within the shadows.

"Right, then." There was a long pause of silence before Kerrin decided to speak up. "If it makes you feel any better, I was arrested for selling illegal refined lyrium. Only I didn't know I was selling it until it was too late."

An animalistic huff came from the shadows. "Foolish bas. It is no wonder your kind die so easily."

He mindlessly tore apart a strand of straw as he considered what she said. "Perhaps that's a blessing in certain cases," he said more for himself than for her to hear.

O . . . O . . . O

"Ah!" Dorian sang. "So that's how they met! Quite the unfortunate circumstance."

The four companions, along with a couple requisition officers, sat around the campfire and warmed themselves as well as watch the stew pot bubble. The smell of rich bear meat along with a few herbs and root vegetables to add flavor to the meal filled the air luring a few wild beggars to stand along the sidelines in hopes of snagging a piece for themselves.

NaTasha smiled to herself as she absently whittled a thin stick into a sharp point.

"You call it unfortunate circumstance but a more 'spiritual' person would call it fate," she shrugged. "And that better not be a quill I see in your hand, Tethras." Her eyes flashed red as she peered across the fire at Varric who had been jotting down unreadable passages in a leather-bound journal.

"Aw, come on! That was actually good, Pinky! Anymore interesting and useful phrases I could possibly borrow?"

"Are you going to credit me for that?" she grinned.

"What kind of a writer would I be if I didn't?" he beamed a charming smile back.

"The regular kind."

Once more, Varric clutched to his heart and winced in faux agony.

"Did your mother not realize that stealing is a criminal offense?" Dorian asked in hopes of returning back to the original subject.

"Apparently not. From what she had told me Qunari don't use currency like the majority of the world does. Goods are traded from one village to the next and what is purchased or left over is divvied out to the rest of the tribe. There is no true bartering. To place a monetary value on necessities using precious metals or stones is to invite evil and greed into the tribe, therefore it's forbidden. And ownership really isn't an issue. If someone needs something it is taken without repercussions.

"My mother didn't understand the concept of money, and, because Qunari view the rest of the races of Thedas as beneath them, didn't bother to learn that ideal. In her mind, she was innocent, but she certainly wasn't going to plead for her life to a bunch of 'bas' humans. So, she kept her mouth shut in hopes they would see the error of their ways and let her on her way."

"How did she manage to be found stealing ore from a mine?" Blackwall spoke up.

"She was with a scouting troop. My mother's position was a craftsman; a blacksmith who specialized in weaponry. An Adaar is a kind of cannon that only the Qunari use on their battleships and she showed a strong understanding of metalworking and chemistry when she was being analyzed for her 'place'. Typically, males were Adaars but females could also be blacksmiths or crafting specialists so it wasn't unheard of. Adaars used certain types of metals and alloys to create the Adaar cannons and only they could find it in quarries.

"Supplies in their tribe were running low, therefore my mother and the other Adaar had to travel out of the confines of the tribe and go searching for it. She traveled far beyond Qunari territory and ended up in a mine owned by a rich purveyor in Kirkwall. She probably would've gotten away with the theft if there hadn't been a surveying group managing the mine that day. It took quite a few men to pin her down and keep her down long enough for the Kirkwall Guard to come and make the arrest."

"They didn't have scouts or others who could've done that job? It seems like something a craftsperson wouldn't have to bother with," Varric looked up from his writing.

"Those better be notes for a reference book you're planning on writing," she warned with a wink.

"Of course, it is! All proceeds with go to the 'Rebuild Skyhold Foundation'."

NaTasha shook her head, long braid bouncing off her back, and sighed. "Normally, there were workers who did such menial tasks. Qunari who refuse to be 'reconditioned' back under the Law of the Qun are made into thoughtless laborers, worse than a Tranquil mage. But because Adaar are sort of seen as scientists in Qunari communities it was up to them to locate the purest resources, and it was thought that only their hands could touch the metals to produce the best cannons. And that's how she ended up getting caught."

"So, your mother was a chemist, a craftsperson, and a sort of priest to the Qunari?" Dorian asked. He rubbed his chin and leaned in closer to the fire, his eyes sparkling with intrigue.

"Yes and no. No one could be an Adaar but an Adaar. It was a very important position to have within the community. It wasn't ever seen as though she was a variety of things. She was Adaar. It's all she knew."

"How terribly fascinating! The poor girl must've been so frightened to not understand why all these armored guards were yelling at her and forcing her to wait in cold cell."

"She would never outright say it, but I'm sure she was terrified. She rarely talks about her emotions, but I can read her like a town notice."

A bowl of the stew was given to her by one of the officers and she nodded in thanks.

"Perhaps this is a good place to stop for now," Dorian suggested and scooped a healthy amount of stew onto his spoon. "I'm sure there is quite a bit more to tell. I very much doubt you were brought up in a jail cell, were you?"

"Not at all. And, yes, that is a tale for another day. Dig in, everyone, before the wolves decide that bear stew sounds like a good appetizer to people meat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the Adaar headcanon. I tried to do some research on Qunari and discovered that "Adaar" means a kind of cannon that Qunari use on their dreadnought ships. Therefore, I created the "adaar" station for NaTasha's mother. Thanks again for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

"The Comtesse de Longueville has openly expressed her support of the Inquisition, and has offered to send any volunteers within her personal Guard to use at our discretion," Josephine announce over the War Table. "This could be the opportunity to get the rest of Orlais as our allies, even if we don't receive formal support from the Empress."

NaTasha stifled a yawn and tried with all her might to listen to the reports with her undivided attention. Politics bored her. Orlesian politics, she decided, reached a whole new plateau of boredom. But it made her self-aware enough to make sure she didn't fall asleep during the meetings. The last thing she needed was to be reprimanded by Cassandra either by a heavy scowl or a snort of disgust. It was as close as she got to being parented as an adult. And it had been a long time since she had been scolded for her actions. The thing she discovered about the Seeker was, despite the fact that they were a few years apart in age, Cassandra gave off the impression of a very proper schoolmarm who didn't approve of "undesirable" behavior; a very proper schoolmarm who had no problem bashing their enemies' skulls with her shield, but continued to radiate that personality no less.

It stung NaTasha's pride to hear the characteristic scoff directed at her. She had tried to tolerate these tedious meetings. She truly did. It was just another reminder that she was forced to be this figurehead in the newly reformed Inquisition though she was certain she really had nothing to do with it. Waking up with a mild form of amnesia in the Temple of Sacred Ashes as the only survivor meant that people thought you were special. And when you were thought of as special it meant that there would be some form of hero worship which, in turn, said you would become the leader of a growing and suddenly popular revolution.

"Inquisitor?" Josephine's soft voice interrupted her thoughts.

'Tasha blinked to attention and sat up a little straighter. Her left hand, which was absently toying with the gauged stud in her ear, quickly dropped to the table in a loud thud. She also tried to hide the guilt on her face. Somewhere along the conversation she had lost interest and didn't bother listening in.

"Yes?"

"Would you like to write the letter to the Comtesse personally or should I?" Josie repeated, her brown eyes wide with suggestion.

'Tasha's brain froze for a second as she thought about how in the world she was going to pull off a convincing letter to this most-likely overly poncy politician.

"Could you possibly write it? I'll just, er, read over to approve and then sign off on it," she suggested weakly.

Across the table she watched Cullen offer her a sympathetic smile and Cassandra wrinkle her nose in disapproval.

"As you wish, Your Worship," Josephine chirped merrily.

The title caused the half-qunari to flinch and narrow her eyes. Maker help her, she really hated to be addressed in such a way. Whatever happened to "ser"? There was nothing wrong with that. Did they have to constantly point out that she was some big, important boss in this quickly growing chaos? Even Bull was starting to call "Herald".

"Are we finished here?" she asked in a grumpy tone.

Cassandra's scowl deepened.

"Yes, Inquisitor," Josie nodded and smiled. "I shall begin composing the letter to the Comtesse and will call for you later when I need you to help complete it."

No one got up from their seat quicker than NaTasha who jogged toward the door. She almost reached her goal until…

"NaTasha, a word, please," Cassandra's firm voice froze her.

She winced before slowly turning back around, replacing the pained expression with one of patience.

"Seeker?" she addressed the tall human woman.

"Commander, Ambassador, permit me a moment alone with the Inquisitor," Cassandra ordered more than she requested.

Cullen and Josephine simply nodded before slipping out the door. NaTasha picked nervously at the calluses on her hands but met Cassandra's hard stare with her own. Both women were seasoned warriors who knew their way on the battlefield. The difference between them was that Cassandra fought for her beliefs while NaTasha fought because she thought it was the only thing she was good at.

"I know you and I don't often see eye to eye on many things," Cassandra began, pacing around the table. Her slender fingertips danced along the table's edge, nails every now and again tapping against the rim. "And I understand that this whole situation has been stressful and difficult for you. I never expected you to be this great savior to the people of Thedas. Since you have been declared the Herald of Andraste I must admit I've often wondered if you truly are sent by Her. You tend to be blunt and simple and don't necessarily chose the most diplomatic choices. Your rejection of the Andrastian religion also had me questioning your purpose many times."

"Look," NaTasha sighed wearily. "I never asked for this, okay? Just say the word and I'll be on my way back home."

"I am not finished," she interrupted her. "Despite what you believe, there are too many others here who look up to you, including Josephine, Cullen, and myself. You must remember that, NaTasha. No matter if it's leading an army of honor-bound soldiers into battle or writing a note of thanks to a member of Orlesian royalty, you are in control. Tread lightly and carefully. An entire faith and world are depending on you." Cassandra cleared her throat and stiffly walked toward the door.

When it closed shut NaTasha sank down to the floor and hid her head between her knees. It had been quite a long time since she felt small and weak. She was sure Cassandra meant her speech to do the opposite but the words echoed loudly in 'Tasha's mind and drew her further and further into a dark pit of despair. She could no longer go back to being a normal mercenary, even if she wanted to.

"If I am truly the Herald of Andraste, give me a sign. Prove it," she challenged in a strained voice. She waited for something. Anything. She didn't know what kind of sign there was supposed to be. A vision of Andraste? A loud voice booming from the heavens to answer her? A whisper of hope?

The only sound she heard was the clanking of hammers outside as workers repaired Skyhold's walls. She lifted her head and stared over at the table. Small metal markers dotted the large map lying on the top, showing current strategy for the Inquisition's armies. Her hands clenched and unclenched.

 _Bang! Ba-Bang! Ba-Bang!_ The hammers continued to beat against the stones, molding and shaping the quarry finds into usable bricks. NaTasha rushed out the door, past Josephine whose greeting was barely heard as she flew by, and toward the undercroft.

The blacksmith and his workers stared at her in surprise and open attentiveness as she jumped down before them. She opened her mouth to speak, lost for words for a brief moment, until she shook herself to attention before Master Harritt.

"I want to make something. A knife," she said.

"Of course, milady Inquisitor," Harritt smiled kindly. "I have a couple of simple schematics we can use."

The smell of brimstone filled her nostrils, reminding her of home, of her father and mother working side by side in their small smithy. She needed to make something with her own hands, feel the weight of a hammer in her fist, let the sparks of slowly tempered metal burn a pleasant warmth against the thick leather gloves.

"Show me what you have."

…..

Dorian coughed and pinched his nose when he smelled the scent of metal and sweat coming from the tall woman. She was covered in soot and perspiration but she looked happy. It had been ages since he seen her smile with satisfaction.

"Forgive me for not smelling like rosewater," she retorted in a snarky tone.

"You look like you just crawled out of a furnace. Where have you been?" he asked and followed after her. She walked up the stairs to her quarters and stopped at the top to kick off her boots.

"In the undercroft, working on something."

"Since when do you work with metal?" he asked and averted his eyes when she threw off her shirt. He was slightly relieved when he saw that she wore a length of thick fabric around her full bust, crisscrossing up her chest and supporting her flesh in a not-so unattractive way. She was muscular but not too bulky. The definition in her body was admirable and striking, co-mingling with the delicate, feminine curves of her torso and hips. But as he looked closer he could see deep scars lining up and down her skin. A rather deep, long blemish ran across her shoulder, shining a dark pink against the bronze sheen.

"Since I was old enough to hold a hammer," she replied. "Are you forgetting that I'm the offspring of two very talented craftsmen?"

"I haven't forgotten, but you never expressed that desire before." He dropped his gaze again when she fully disrobed and headed for the fireplace to grab a large cast iron kettle full of hot water. It was dumped into a porcelain basin and mixed with cold mountain spring water before being sponged over her body.

"It's not like I had much time to do anything I enjoy," she sighed in relaxation. "I was never as good as my father or mother in the smithy, but I learned what I needed to. And it was just enough when I needed to repair my weapons or if a cooking pot broke."

"A rather handy skill to have, I imagine."

NaTasha turned her head to look over her shoulder and smiled when she noticed that Dorian kept his sight far away from her. She never pegged him for a shy man, but the blush on his cheeks revealed the truth.

"It's saved my ass a few times," she said as she scrubbed the sponge over her backside. "But since the Inquisition has its own staff of blacksmiths I haven't had the chance to fix my own things like I used to."

"Speaking of asses, has Bull bothered you for a drink since last time ?"

"Not lately. Although I have heard he sent Krem looking for me a few nights ago. I told a few guards who were working night watch that I didn't want to be disturbed unless it's was vitally important."

Dorian chuckled and stared down at the brocade upholstery on the settee, counting the swirls while he waited for 'Tasha to finish her bath and put her clothing back on.

"The poor sot is either going to give up the chase or find you utterly irresistible."

"I am hoping for the former," she grumbled and began to dry herself.

"I find you irresistible," the mage flirted and dared to look back up. He caught the slightest glimpse of her left breast before she concealed it behind a thin red silk robe. "Are you going to throw me out of here?"

"You haven't insulted me for being something I can't help. For now, you and I are on good terms," she sat down next to him. The scent of soap and flower oils had replaced the sulfur and ash. "Well, since you've seen me naked, what do you want to do now?"

"Care to continue your story?" he prodded gently. "Your father was still in the Kirkwall jail, recovering from food poisoning."

"Yes, we were at that point, weren't we? By the way, is this really all that interesting to you?"

"If it wasn't I wouldn't be asking, hmm?" he smiled. "Go on!"

"Alright. My father was beginning to fear he would die in the jail. Lucky for him, my mother didn't like the thought of living in a cell with a rotting corpse…"

O . . . O. . . O

A stale bread loaf and a hunk of greasy, rotten meat were thrown into the cell. Kerrin hadn't eaten since the first time food had been given to him and the results had taken an obvious toll. His stomach growled with ferocity and pure hunger. He was terribly tempted to dig into the bad food.

A hard hand was thrust against his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. He tumbled back against the wall. His eyes watered, causing the form of Adaar to shift and shimmer in his sight. All he managed to get out with the breath he had left was "why".

"You eat more of their filth and you will surely die!" she hissed in his face.

"I'll die if I don't!" he argued back and considered scrambling back over to the garbage.

Adaar had pulled him back, surprising him with the massive strength she possessed in just one arm. She reached into her pant pocket and produced another small elfroot leaf.

"You eat this, bas Kerrin Donnegal. It will keep you alive."

Kerrin pulled out of her grip and stared at the wrinkled plant. His brow fell low over his dark eyes, lips pulled thin, and he shook his head.

"No. Why do you care if I live or die, huh? I'm just some ignorant little human, an insignificant speck of life before you. Rubbish, right? A piece of smelly shit!"

He stood up while he ranted, arms flailing about as he shouted. The small outburst had weakened him to the point the room began to spin. He gripped weakly to the bars and slid back down to the floor. "I'm going to die because I'm a fucking fool. Because I had no sense to think that someone could possibly use me. Why didn't I just go home the first time like I said I was going to? My poor Nellie…"

He let his sorrows consume him as he thought about his faithful equestrian companion. Had she been sold? Used for dog meat? Left to rot in the stables? Tears streamed down his face and he wept openly; for himself, for Nellie, and for every overly trusting fool who had to face the very same dilemma he was currently in.

When he had stopped he apologized quietly and curled into a tight ball in his corner. Adaar remained silent but still held out her hand with the elfroot leaf as an offering.

"Why? Why do you care?" he whispered.

She grunted and crept forward until she was in his corner. The leaf was dropped to his knee.

"You will waste to nothing and your life will have meant nothing, bas," she grumbled before retreating.

Kerrin regarded the leaf with little interest before shoving it into his mouth. He chewed on it as long as he could until it nearly melted away into his saliva. Moments later he felt instantly revived but it did nothing to calm his stomach which ached painfully with hunger.

"Won't you run out of leaves eventually?" he asked.

"I will. But I will not think about that until they are gone," she answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Where are you from?"

"My homeland."

"Which is…"

"Across the waters. Never are bas allowed entrance unless they swear allegiance to the Qun. You would not be admitted."

Kerrin sneered and rolled his eyes. "Remind me not to plan a holiday there anytime soon."

"Recreation is wasted time."

"My, aren't you fun!" Kerrin retorted in open sarcasm. "Why, I can barely contain the laughter inside me."

"Your cynicism is your way of dealing with anger. You are not truly angry at me."

"Oh, Maker's Breath!" he sighed and fell silent.

Moments later he heard the tapping against the wall once more. His curiosity had finally gotten the better of him.

"What?! What is that noise?! I've heard it for the past four days now and I cannot for the life of me figure out what it is! Is it you?"

The tapping stopped.

"The Numbers of Quiet. It is a mantra."

"A mantra of what? How to annoy your cellmate?"

"You are a very thankless man, bas Kerrin Donnegal."

"I'm sorry. I'm just… I haven't eaten in three days, I'm covered in filth, I'm worried about my horse," he dropped his head down to his knees and rocked his forehead back and forth. "I don't want to die."

Adaar said nothing more. The tapping began again, slowly and more measured.

…..

"Donnegal!" the guard barked loudly.

Kerrin's heart jumped up his throat as he woke. His guts clenched tightly and he thought that his worst fears were about to come true.

_They're here to collect me. I'm going to die._

Slowly, he stood up and tried straightening the front of his deeply soiled shirt. "I'm- I'm Kerrin Donnegal," he said meekly.

The guard spat into the cell, barely missing Kerrin's feet. "Ya gotta visitor."

It took a second for Kerrin to realize that they weren't there to send him to his death.

"V-visitor, you say?" he whispered in disbelief.

The guard stepped aside to reveal, much to Kerrin's shock, Bruttas. The elder dwarf gave him a scowl that would've frozen the hottest desert.

"Son, you have got to be the biggest idiot I've ever met," he grumbled.

Kerrin hung his head in shame and nodded.

"Yes, ser, I know that. If you're here to press charges, I-"

"Shut up!" Bruttas snapped. "Don't you know not to open yer mouth where members of authority can hear you? Listen up, and don't say another word, understand?"

Kerrin nodded, lips sealed tight.

"Right, then. My brother is a bastard and he should've known better than to use you. I never agreed to his, er, arrangement with the gentleman, who shall remain unnamed. Y'see, I don't trust Rumil an inch. The devil would betray and stab me in the back in half a heartbeat if he got the chance."

"Then why do you-"

"Why do I stick around? Because this fool," he pointed a thick finger into his beard, "promised his family he'd keep an eye on the slick trickster. I'm starting to regret that promise; but if a man is as good as his word, then I shall remain true until my death."

Bruttas stopped speaking and glanced back into the cell at the Qunari who refused to acknowledge his presence.

"I want all ties to this mess cut," he continued. "Which means the money you made I'm gonna use ta get you outta here. Once yer gone, I want you out of Kirkwall for your own good. Understand?"

A wave of relief swept through Kerrin. He dropped to his knees and thanked the Maker and Andraste both. Never in his life had he felt such relief and happiness.

"Of course, ser. I shall leave this place behind and never return!" he promised. That was, until he turned around long enough to see the dark pink sparkle of Adaar's eyes shimmering from the shadows, and his heart sank again.

"Actually, no, ser. I cannot leave Kirkwall. Not yet."

"What?! Did you not just hear me right? I said I'm getting out of here and away from my asshole of a brother! Are you mad?" grumbled the irritated dwarf.

"I owe someone my life, and, like you, ser, I am a man of my word. I could've died if it weren't for my companion here. She brought me back from the brinks of death and she should be given the same kindness as me."

Bruttas growled beneath his beard and stared back at the Qunari who remained silent and neutral.

"You mean her?" he pointed at the shadowy figure.

"Of course, I mean her," Kerrin nodded and frowned. "If I am to be given a second chance, she deserves that as well."

Bruttas waved him closer, nose wrinkling in disgust at the smell of the human's breath and filth. "Qunari are brutes, murderers, and war-mongers, son! You really think that thing deserves freedom? Do you even know why she's in here? She probably dismembered some poor family and their children just to drink their blood!"

Kerrin shivered and shook his head again. "No, ser. Not her. She is innocent. And if she truly was a murderer, why would she help heal me?"

"To use you! You're still not thinking right! Which is why you should get yer scrawny ass out of this city!"

"Messere Bruttas, you can release me to appease your guilt. I would owe you my life just the same. But I cannot promise you my leave of Kirkwall. Not until Adaar is released and given her freedom."

Bruttas looked hard at Kerrin and Kerrin returned the stony regard. Finally, the dwarf growled loudly and stomped his feet in anger.

"Fine! You stupid, little shit, I'll get you outta here. But, I warn ya, stay away from the Hightown Markets. For your own safety! I so much as see your tar-colored head pokin' through the crowds I'll have you arrested for peddling unregistered wares and you'll be back in this pisshole! Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," Kerrin stood up as tall as he could.

His eyes still locked on the young human, Bruttas called for the guard and asked to be taken to the bailiff.

Kerrin continued to whisper thanks to his god, face pressed against the cold, rusted bars. His prayers were interrupted by Adaar's tap-tap-tapping on the wall. He turned to face her and offered her a weak smile.

"I'm going to get you out of here, somehow. I promise you."

Adaar flicked her sight up to regard him. Her face was blank, emotionless, but for the slight sparkle of hope in her eyes.

"You should listen to the dwarf, bas Kerrin Donnegal. He has wisdom. You could learn from him."

"Wisdom or no, you saved me. It's the least I can do."

Adaar stood up and approached him. Kerrin had to tilt his head back in order to meet her gaze. She was easily a head and a half taller than him. So strong, so beautiful to regard; she was what he imagined the ancient gods to have looked like; daunting creatures with towering figures and proud faces which could make mortals fall to the ground and be happy to have a mouthful of dirt while they worshipped.

She lowered her chin to her chest and pressed both hands to her heart.

"Basalit-an Kerrin Donnegal," she spoke a soft voice.

Beneath the layers of soil and sweat Kerrin blushed. He had no idea what she had called him but he had the feeling that it wasn't something bad.

"Listen," he licked his lips and stepped closer, feeling the warmth of her skin radiating toward him, "I- I thank you for your kindness. I wanted to tell you that I think you're-"

"Donnegal!" the guard barked at him again. "Time to say farewell to your Qunari pet."

The keys rattled in the lock, and the door squeaked open loudly. The guard grabbed him roughly by the collar of his shirt and drug him out of the cell.

"I'll come for you, Adaar!" he shouted as he was pushed down the hall. "I swear to it!"

Adaar watched the human guard shove Kerrin Donnegal toward the prison door. His words resonated loudly in her mind and caused her proud heart to jump. She had been taught to never trust anyone who wasn't a follower of the Qun. They were unenlightened fools who were damned to greed, lust, and stupidity. They were "bas"; nothing more than useless things. But this Kerrin human, there was something about him. He was an utter fool. And he was physically weak. Yet when he promised to get her out of the prison she actually believed him

She gripped to the iron bars and began to tap her nails on the metal to the Numbers of Quiet.

_One, one, one… One, one, two… One, two, two…_

"The Gods damn you, should you break your promise, Kerrin Donnegal," she whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Kerrin exited the jailhouse resembling a homeless man. He was shoved out the door with a "git outta here!" from the guard who had removed him from the cell. Bruttas grumbled unintelligibly into his thick beard as she shoved a key into his hand.

"Yer horse has been taken care of, son. And yer possessions were stored away in the public garage. Use this key to get them out. Now, if there's any sense still left in ya, go home. Forget about that Qunari and enjoy your freedom."

Kerrin sighed and stared down at the key. It sparkled in the sunlight, contrasting against the dirt ground under his nails and pasted on his skin. Logic said he should've listened to Bruttas. It also said "rescuing" a person who he barely knew and probably wouldn't appreciate the help was utter madness.

But Kerrin was a man of promise, even if that promise meant ignoring logic.

He was about to answer the dwarf when he heard a collection of curse words slurred coming from the bailiff who was fighting with the door handle. His brain suddenly clicked with an idea. Wordlessly, he passed Bruttas and approached the struggling man.

"Excuse me, ser," he interrupted the bailiff's colorful use of language. "I could fix that for you. Quite easily, in fact."

The bailiff looked up at the young, grimy man in caution after propping the door open with a chunk of iron ore.

"Right," he drawled and slowly stepped back, one hand gripping to the haft of his sword which rested protectively on his hip. "Nothing that can't be handled by the city blacksmith. Now, be on your way."

"Oh, yes, of course, ser, but just how soon can the blacksmith work you in? Kirkwall is a large city and nightfall will eventually be here in several hours. What if the door should break during the evening? You have plenty of valuables within the building, yes? Some not perfectly secure? And I'm certain Kirkwall has its fair share of burglars. I can fix that handle and have it set back in the door before the sun sets. In fact, anything that needs repaired in the way of metalsmithing, I can do for you."

The bailiff glanced down at the broken handle and then back up at the dirty man. Why would this damn idiot want to help the City Guard? He had just been released, a rarity for anyone who had been incarcerated in the jailhouse. But, now that he thought about it, there were plenty of things that needed fixed. Several sets of shackles were barely in working condition, bars needed to be replaced, and there were too many rusted nails to count that should've been dealt with long ago.

"What's in it for you?" he asked slowly.

"Payment."

"Kid, we barely make enough revenue after city taxes to pay the Guard workforce. Why would we pay you when we could pay the blacksmith who gives city officials a discount? And I don't even know if you're truly a metal worker. For all I know, you're a pathological liar looking for a way to scam someone."

"I'm not asking for money, ser. And I don't have any intentions of scamming you. What I mean by payment is this: whatever you would pay the city's smith, keep a tally under my name. When I have reached the amount of prisoner Adaar's bail, I want it honored. I shall work for her release."

The bailiff shook his head in disbelief. The kid was insane. Although, if he was a decent blacksmith it was a pretty good deal. Adaar wasn't arrested for any serious crime. Simple petty theft, if he remembered correctly.

"I want proof of your workmanship," he said in a gruff tone. "And I want you cleaned up before you get back here. You prove to me you're a legitimate blacksmith, and that you're true to your word, we'll go from there."

Kerrin smiled, revealing his plaque-covered teeth, and reached out a hand to offer to the bailiff. There was no shake, and he had to shove his fist into his pocket. The shake would come later, he figured.

"Yes, ser. Of course, ser. I shall return shortly!"

Just before Kerrin ran off toward the stables Bruttas grabbed him harshly and yanked him down to meet his eyes.

"Just to remind you, don't come near the Market. For your own good," he warned.

Kerrin nodded in compliance, and Bruttas released him before walking away. A new sense of determination filled the young man. It was no longer about making a fortune or a name for himself, but about helping someone. And this time he would help by doing something honest.

…..

After a quick trip to give Nellie a hug, and a cleansing in the public bathhouse, which had him wondering what kind of new filth he replaced after washing off the old, Kerrin rushed back to the jailhouse with a few examples of his workmanship. A small knife, a few screws, and some ornamental hooks were shoved into his pockets. He presented the assortment with pride to the bailiff.

"Hmm…" the taller, broader man hummed in thought as he inspected the work. The lines were neat, straight, with few blemishes or signs of slag beaten into the metal. It was good steel, a strong Free Marchers variety with hints of Tevinter influence. It was several times better than what the town's smith offered. Not as fine as some of the richer Orlesian kinds or even what the dwarves brought in, but if they were getting this work for, essentially, free he wasn't about to complain.

Kerrin waited patiently for the bailiff's answer. He feared he would be turned away and his promise to Adaar broken.

"Alright, Donnegal, you got yourself a deal," the bailiff spoke in a dull voice. "But here's the thing; you'll have to work out of the old jail wing. It's got a big hole in the ceiling and some gulls have made it their home. The floor is stone, though, so you can make yourself a little forge without risk of burning down the place. And that's the other thing. You'll have to find the stuff to make the forge yourself. The only thing we have is some old firebrick that's been piled up in the basement. Covered in rat shit, most likely. Set yourself up, get it running, and fix that door before the night watch takes over and you can call that your first job."

It should've been seen as an impossible task. The sun was already starting toward the west which meant he only had a few hours left of the day. With a shout of thanks, Kerrin ran into the jailhouse and searched for the basement. He fought off a small army of angry rats from their makeshift palace within the pile of firebrick, lugging the heavy stones two at a time up the several flights of shaking, questionably sound wooden steps into the oldest part of the building. Again, he had to battle with nature as he started a scuffle with irritated sea gulls who weren't quite so ready to give up their comfy home.

The bricks were piled into a short dome with a hole in the bottom to feed wood into. He shaped a small, cone-shaped crucible big enough to melt a little bit of steel in order to fix the door handle and lock. He rushed back to Hightown to gather Nellie and the cart, gently urging the horse to hurry down toward the Gallows. Tools he hadn't used in ages were neatly bundled inside the cart's hold. He pulled them out and gave them a quick inspection before lighting the forge and building up temperature.

Kerrin began to work on the project just in time. With the metal still hot, and the design a bit sloppy but functional, he replaced the door handle right as the bailiff exited the jailhouse. He wiped the thick curtain of sweat from his brow, smearing charcoal over his forehead.

"It's not my best, ser, but it will work. For now. Until I can make you a better handle, which I can and I will, if you wish, but I finished what I said I would. And it will work for the evening," he explained hurriedly. A silent prayer to Andraste swam in his mind.

The bailiff opened and closed the door a few times, checking every angle and line repaired before nodding in acceptance.

"Okay. It works. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, I've got a nice, long list of things you can work on if you're that determined to help free your Qunari bird."

Hope and determination filled Kerrin's heart, but exhaustion was stronger at that moment. He smiled to hinder the yawn that was starting, thanking the bailiff again before he turned on his heels. There was no apartment anymore, no soft bed to sleep in. It didn't bother him, though. Anything was better than sleeping on straw thickened by vomit. He climbed onto his cart and settled back on a bit of canvas he used as a mattress.

The stars sparkled brightly that night. He made out a few constellations before the sky faded from his sight. Sleep took him like a patient, happy lover; with gentle gusto. It was the best night he had had in what felt like ages.

…..

He woke up the next morning ready for anything. He purchased a couple small pastries from a nearby baker with the few spare coins he found lurking around the back of his cart and enjoyed every single nibble. It was, by far, the best pastry he had ever eaten; and he would've devoured both if his conscience didn't kick in.

Adaar hadn't eaten.

He was pretty sure elfroot couldn't sustain a full-grown Qunari woman for long. Carefully, he tucked the second pastry into his pocket after wrapping it in a small piece of cotton, and headed for the jailhouse.

Bailiff Goffrek met him at the door, shooting him a confused smirk as the young man greeted him cheerfully.

"I hope you realize what you're getting yourself into, Donnegal," Goffrey warned him, unlocking the refurbished door handle. It took the key with a neat, smooth click as it opened.

"Yes, ser. I do, ser. Erm, ser, would it be too much to ask to visit Adaar before I begin my work?" Kerrin asked meekly.

Goffrek stared at him in question once more before nodding shortly.

"I want no funny business, understood? I'll send a guard down with you. And don't stay down there all day!"

Kerrin nodded in understanding and followed a guard Goffrey had assigned to take him down into the cell block where Adaar was being kept. Immediately the smell of filth and musty mold filled his nostrils, but he attempted to ignore the nausea that bubbled in his guts. He was determined to see Adaar and tell her his plan.

The guard beat on the bars, alerting her of his presence.

"Hey, Ox! I don't know what you did to get yourself an admirer, but he's here to see you," he shouted gruffly.

Kerrin's brows furrowed on his forehead as he heard the guard shout the derogatory word at her.

"Please, don't call her that," he requested in a quiet voice.

The guard snorted a rude chuckle before walking away.

Kerrin placed his hands on the bars and attempted to peer into the shadows. He could hear the faint clicking of her horns on the wall. Her meditative "numbers", he remembered. He had snapped at her for performing them. Now they were a comfort to him, a signal to let him know she was still alive, still okay.

"Adaar, it's me. I, er, I brought you something," he pulled the pastry from his pocket and held it out. "It's not necessarily great for nutrition, but you need it. Please, take it."

The tapping stopped and he heard the sound of feet scooting across the floor. She broke through the shadows, her back slouched from exhaustion. The bright sparkle in her eyes seemed to have faded. Her lips were cracked and chapped to the point he could see specks of dried blood between the lines. Had she always appeared so weak?

"Basalit-an Kerrin," she whispered. "What is this you are offering?"

"A nut pastry. It has to be better than wilted elfroot leaves."

Adaar sniffed the air suspiciously before taking the pastry from his hands. She took a hesitant bite from one corner. Her eyes fluttered shut as though she was lost in ecstasy and she moaned lowly as she chewed. But instead of consuming the entire treat she wrapped the rest back up and held it in her hands as if it was a precious gift.

"I thank you," she said. "I shall reserve the remainder for later."

"Of course. I also have news. I have a plan to pay for your bail. The bailiff is allowing me to do some repairs for him. My work will go on a tally and when I've worked enough to meet the amount he will let you go."

Adaar met his eyes once more, a dark frown forming on her face. "Why do you do this? You know not who I am. I could murder you once I am free. Would you continue to work for my freedom if I admitted a desire for your death?"

Kerrin swallowed the hard lump that had built up in his throat with a loud "glump" sound. He shoved his trembling hands deep into his pockets and offered her a gentle smile.

"In truth, I don't believe you're a murderer, Adaar. I remember the look of fear on your face when you heard about the guard executing a man for being a thief. A person who is willing to murder another for no just reason isn't afraid to die. And you are. I could be wrong, but… I don't think you'd kill me. At least, that's what I'm hoping."

Adaar studied him for a few long seconds before grunting in approval. "Despite your foolishness you display some wisdom."

"I shall take that as a compliment, my lady," Kerrin beamed.

Adaar snorted and shook her proud head. "Go on to your work. I shall return to my Numbers of Quiet." She turned away and disappeared into the shadows.

Kerrin sighed and turned toward the guard who showed him back upstairs. The fresh air revived him, brightening his mood completely. He started up the forge, muscles flexing and warming up in the hot air that filled the small area. Once the fire was hot enough he went in search of things to work repair. Determination kept him working until he was stopped by Goffrek who handed him a pitcher of water and a pork pie.

"I've never seen anyone work like you, Donnegal," he snickered. "You're gonna kill yourself if you keep going like that."

Kerrin drank a large swig of the water before wiping down his face and neck with a rag.

"No, ser. I've just been given the gift of a second chance, and I shall not waste it," he smiled thankfully as he hungrily took a large bite out of the pie. "Oh, I took the liberty of working on those busted shackles I found in a drawer. A few are beyond repair but those that I could fix should be good to use now."

Goffrek picked up the shackles and inspected them. A few unrefined burrs ticked against his fingers (if he wanted them perfect he knew Donnegal would fix them in a heartbeat) but he figured that the work was good enough for Kirkwall's common criminals.

"I'll put you down for the shackles that were repairable. Standard rate we give to the town's smith."

"That's quite fair, ser. Oh, uh, the pie… let me get you the coin for it," he fumbled around in his pockets, searching for a few copper rounds to pay for the unexpected meal.

The bailiff studied the young man as he struggled to search for money. This wasn't a criminal, he decided. Here was a gullible boy who was placed in an inconvenient situation, and, for whatever reason, he felt the need to not only redeem himself but help someone he barely knew. And a Qunari no less!

He waved his hand in protest at Kerrin. "Put it away. If you're going to keep working for us you'll need decent food. When you're done eating come see me. I found something else."

Kerrin nodded and continued with his meal. Once more, things were finally looking up for him, he thought, and he hummed a happy tune.

O . . . O . . . O

"So, that's how he helped free your mother," Dorian mused, fingertips brushing lightly over his perfectly trimmed mustache. "Quite a noble thing he did. And I can see where several others thought him insane. I was always under the assumption, due to popular opinion, that Qunari were savage brutes."

"Outsiders would see Qunari as brutes," NaTasha smiled. "And, if I'm being honest, I've viewed them the same way," she shrugged and began to unbraid her hair. It fell down over her shoulders in wispy waves of slate gray. Here and there Dorian could see strands of pure white streaking throughout.

"But your mother…" he prodded with raised brows.

"My mother spent many years attempting to acclimate herself to life beyond the Qun and the tribe. There were times when I felt we would never understand each other, but in the moments when she spoke to me about her life before she met my father I realized something profound. We fear what we don't understand. And when we don't understand something that fear can develop into hatred and disgust.

"That's what happened with the Qunari and the rest of Thedas. They drove their whole lives so deeply into the Qun that they feared what the rest of the world had to offer. Centuries changed that fear into distrust and a sense of superiority within the Qunari. Those who chose to leave the Qunari and become Tal-Vashoth changed that born-in hate into a desire for freedom and knowledge beyond what they were told. That's why the Qunari loathe the Tal-Vashoth as much as they do; they went beyond that fear and proved that the Qun isn't the only way. The Qunari don't want to see the Qun proved wrong, so they wage wars on anyone who denies it, especially the Tal-Vashoth."

Dorian rubbed his chin in though, absorbing the sage words the Inquisitor spoke. She was quite an unusual person, he decided. She could appear gruff and uneducated to the outside person. They saw the horns sprouting from her head and made assumptions simply based on her looks. When she swung the battleaxe and gave that loud cry to taunt the enemy she embodied a berserker; crazed from bloodlust and driven by the sound of steel hitting bone.

No one would know that this woman, this half-human, horned creature was actually one of the most sensitive, most intellectual, and possibly the kindest person he had ever had the pleasure to know. And she was terribly wise. She wasn't a master on one single subject, unless battle could be considered thusly, but knew a little bit about everything. She was fun to talk to; when she had a chance to sit down and talk, that is.

It was in that thought process when Dorian's mind settled on something he had already knew but didn't quite admit it fully. NaTasha Adaar was his best friend. Thank the Maker Kerrin Donnegal had met Adaar in that prison or there would never have been a NaTasha to share stories with.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" 'Tasha interrupted his epiphany.

He blinked and realized he must've resembled some love-sick pup staring at his idol.

"Forgive me," he chuckled to himself. "I guess I should go search for a small snack of some kind. I'm feeling a bit puckish."

"I think you need to spend more time away from the library," a crooked smirk crossed her face. "I heard that one of Leliana's agents thought you were attractive. Maybe you could invite him to the tavern for a drink."

Dorian's cheeks flushed a bright red as he smiled.

"Oh? Who is this?" he asked, openly flattered.

"Renaulf. Handsome guy, long red hair he keeps tied back in a bun, dark brown eyes," she winked suggestively.

"Ah, yes. He is handsome," he flushed brighter. "Perhaps I will take your advice. Although," he turned back around after standing up. He rubbed his thighs from the numbing sensation due to sitting for such a long time. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Is there no one whom you fancy? Surely there is someone within Skyhold's sheltering walls you've set your eye on."

'Tasha sighed and meekly fixed the front folds of her robe.

"I don't have time for romance. Or even a few minutes to have fun," she shrugged. "There are more important things to worry about than getting temporary satisfaction."

"I'm sure you could spare a few moments to go after a bit of fun," he smiled. "There are plenty around you who would be more than happy to oblige your desires."

"Please, don't tell me you're suggesting Bull," she pointed at him in warning.

Dorian threw his head back and laughed heartily.

"I haven't said a word, love. But, I am certain he'd be first in line. Or fighting with Blackwall for that spot."

'Tasha wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "No, thanks. I'm fine. Really. If I'm that desperate I'm sure I could find someone more to my liking than the Iron Bull."

"Fair enough. I'll leave you to your evening. If you feel like telling me more about your father and mother you know where to find me," he began to descend the stairs.

"In Renaulf's quarters?" she smiled again, causing another wave of pink to brighten Dorian's tanned cheeks.

He shook his head and wagged a finger at her. "You're a terrible woman, NaTasha. Horrible!" he called up to her from the bottom of the stairs.

"You're welcome, Pavus."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6:

There were wolves painted on the walls. Big, elongated, stylized wolves howling at the red sky.

NaTasha scratched the delicate skin behind her left horn and wondered why the elf had painted all over the walls. She assumed they were visions he had seen in his journeys into the Fade. Everything had a strange, surreal sense, perhaps cryptic or even a bit ominous. She openly admitted she knew next to nothing about art, other than to look at a piece and say if it was pretty or not. The only thing she seemed to be good at drawing was blood.

"You look confused, Inquisitor," Solas spoke up, interrupting her thoughts. "Are you about to give me a critique?"

She turned around and faced the elven mage, wondering how long he had been standing behind her before speaking up. A blush of chagrin darkened her bronze cheeks.

"No," she shook her head. "I'm not an artist."

"You claim to not possess any artistic talents, yet I have heard you sing upbeat anthems of the Free Marches. Your voice is quite lovely, for a Qunari."

NaTasha blinked in confusion. Was that an insult or did she simply misunderstand?

"Do Qunari not have good singing voices?" she asked, wondering if she would be leaving the room with a singed backside. She didn't want to get into an argument, but there were times when Solas' arrogance annoyed her.

"Qunari don't often sing, and when they do their voices are harsh and brutal against music. You do not sing with the same anger and aggression," he offered a light smile.

"I am not Qunari," she clarified. "I'm Vashoth."

_And I'll have you know my mother had a beautiful voice, for a Qunari,_ she wanted to say but kept her lips sealed for the purpose of being diplomatic.

Solas' lips twitched slightly as his smile grew.

"Yes, of course. Forgive me, Inquisitor; I often forget that there are many of your race who do not practice the rigors of the Qun. You were not even born into a tribe, correct?"

She was growing irritated with his assumptions. Long ago she had learned that assuming who a person was due to heritage was often dangerous and wrong. She was proof, for that matter. It took quite some time before those in her past mercenary groups, who weren't like her, learned to trust her leadership simply because she grew horns from her brow. Prejudice was still very much alive and well in Thedas, and she had felt its harsh sting time and time again.

"No. I was born in Wycome, if you must know. I'm a Marcher through and through."

"Then you openly deny the Qun?" he pushed.

Didn't he know this? She thought it was very apparent she never claimed to be a "true" Qunari. She had spent more time in an Andrastian temple than ever learning anything about the Qun.

"I'm not denying anything that I don't understand. My mother respected it despite the fact that the laws ostracized her existence when she left her tribe."

"And your father?" Solas began to pace the circumference of the room.

"What about my father? He's Andrastian; pretty standard for most humans in the Marches," she answered. She began to feel that she was on trial. Was there going to be a reason for all the questions?

"Do you believe in the Andrastian faith?" a coy smile pulled crooked on his lips.

Her calm was beginning to fail. Brows lowered sharply over her tourmaline eyes and she pouted her lips.

"I don't know what I believe. Old gods, the Maker, Paladins; it's all the same to me. I'm open but at the same time I wonder if they're just stories made up to answer questions."

"And yet you let people call you the Herald of Andraste," he tilted his chin proudly.

"I have tried to deny that claim, if you remember," she clenched her jaw. "I don't particularly like that title."

"You don't enjoy feeling a swelling to your ego that so many consider you a 'Chosen One'?"

Fed up with his questioning, NaTasha crossed her arms over her chest and started for the staircase that led to the library above.

"I think I'll just be on my way," she grumbled.

Solas' smile suddenly dropped. He rushed after her, nearly jogging to keep up. "I have upset you," he called after her before she reached the first step. "I apologize."

She glanced over her shoulder, lips thinned in preparation for keeping her words to herself.

_I'll give him five seconds to explain himself before I'm out of here,_ she promised.

"I haven't met many Vashoth in my travels, and certainly none with your unique background."

"Just what do you know about my background?" One foot poised eagerly over the first step.

"Simply what you have revealed a moment ago; you're a child of two worlds. Your mother became Tal-Vashoth for a reason you have not yet divulged. Your father a religious man…"

"I never said he was religious; at least he wasn't in the deepest sense of the word."

"But he did believe in something? What do you believe in, NaTasha Adaar?"

Sighing to herself, she turned her head away and walked up the stairs, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her tunic. The mood she was in, she certainly didn't need the sage advice of some "know-it-all" mage. Besides, there was a sample of demon skin she needed to get to the research table and it was starting to smell.

After depositing the small parcel she started to walk toward one of the many exits when she spotted Dorian sitting cross-legged between several pillars of books in one corner.

"I understand you love the written word, but isn't this going a bit far, even for you?" she teased.

The mage chuckled and gently closed the cover before glancing up at his company.

"It's called research, my sweet tower of brawn," he smirked and held out a hand for her to help him up. "Where are you off to now?"

"Nowhere in particular. Thought I'd treat myself to a long, romantic walk with my shadow."

Dorian tsk'ed and shook his head.

"You need a companion."

"I mentioned a mabari pup to Cassandra. I don't think she liked that idea too much. There were descriptions of drool and precious furniture possibly being destroyed among her string of obscenities and swears. Leliana suggested a nug. I have a feeling I pissed her off when I said something along the lines of 'you're mad'." She stopped on the other side of the door which lead outside and glanced up at the windows above. A curious twist on her brow caused her to eyes to narrow into dark pink slits. "You know, I've been filled with this suspicion that I'm being watched. Maybe I should apologize for calling her crazy."

"I recommend that course of action immediately. And I don't mean animal companionship; dirty, smelly, flea-infested creatures lying on your lap, begging to be petted while said fleas bite into your flesh. I am talking about, well, a mutual companion. Someone who will help you 'release' some tension, preferably in a horizontal position, although not necessary," his mustache cocked crooked as he smiled.

NaTasha sighed and dropped her chin to her chest. She stared down at her hands, noticing the faint green glow locked beneath the skin of her left palm. It swirled and pulsed with a life of its own. She swallowed the nervous lump that built in her throat and hid her hand behind her back. It was difficult to stare at it for even a second without a thousand questions entering her mind.

"I don't have time for that, Dorian," she said in a soft, sad voice. "There's too much to do for me to even think of myself. Corypheus is out there, plotting his next move; apparently Josephine thinks it's so important for us to help out Empress Celene. Between you and me, I'd sooner stay here than go deal with a bunch of pompous, Orlesian courtesans. I'm no diplomat."

"Has there ever been anyone who made you take time?"

A flicker of happiness brightened her eyes for a short moment. She stopped walking and leaned against the stone wall.

"Vit'Aad. He was a Tal-Vashoth who ran from his village before the Tamrassans could discover he was a mage; still a young boy. Do you know what Qunari do to mages in their own tribes? Their horns are sawed off and their lips sewn shut for fear they would speak spell words. They call them Saarebas, treat them like animals. Worse than animals, actually. Vit'Aad named himself that in hopes any Qunari he crossed would not know he was a mage and leave him alone."

"Vit'Aad means…" Dorian prodded.

"Basically it means 'Diseased'. We met in the Valo-Kas recruitment. He was deadly with daggers, even more deadly with a staff. But magic was a last resort to him. He didn't like it; said it made him feel like he was in two places at once. He didn't enlist to be a battlemage; he was a healer and a damn good one." She sighed and smiled. "He was so handsome. He had the most beautiful hands. It was nice to be held in them."

"What happened to him? He wasn't in the Temple incident, was he?"

"No. He was stabbed by a poisoned blade during a skirmish with some bandits. We were low on supplies and, despite me and the rest of the company trying to get him to take elfroot so he could heal, he refused any medicine. He was beyond any help. He suffered for a couple of nights before he finally died."

"Oh, 'Tasha!" Dorian gasped with open sympathy. "I'm so terribly sorry."

"It's alright. It seems so long ago. I can barely remember what his voice sounded like, but, sometimes, there are moments when I can still smell his skin or recall his laugh."

"And you loved him?"

NaTasha smiled again and stared off toward the setting sun. A bright streak of vermillion painted across the snow-capped mountains, casting the landscape around the horizon to glow with a warm yet ominous light. Her heart ached like an old war wound.

"I did. I suppose I still do." She sighed and pushed off the wall, motioning Dorian to follow her. "Come on, mage. I hear a pint of ale calling our names."

…..

The bard was singing a soft song amid the sounds of raucous laughter and clanking tankards. 'Tasha could understand a few of the Orlesian words but most of it was completely foreign to her. It was either a song about love or war. They usually ended in the same way; someone lost.

"I'm curious," Dorian ended her wandering thoughts. "You said your father asked to work for the Kirkwall city guard in order to free your mother. I take it he succeeded, yes?"

"Eventually," she sipped on her ale. It was a nice, dark, earthy brew; rich with malted barley and fermented wheat. She didn't like the bitter draughts, thought they tasted too much like the medicines her mother shoved down her gullet as a child when she was ill. "It took quite some time, since Kirkwall tends to mark their bails at really high prices. It kept criminals behind bars, which was a good thing; but it also prevented innocent people from getting out. My father was lucky, and he realized that once he got out and started working towards Mother's release."

"And did their relationship begin to grow, blossoming into this grand romance?" his hazel eyes sparkled with hope.

NaTasha chuckled and toyed mindlessly with the lid on her tankard.

"If you asked either of my parents how the relationship began you would get two very different versions of the same story."

O . . . O . . . O

It was the same routine nearly every day. Adaar would rise from her sleep to be greeted by Kerrin who gave her something to eat and drink and then shortly after return to her meditations. But as the days progressed, one week turned to two weeks, her meditations shortened and her hopes in seeing the young human man grew. She even began to find him, oddly, quite lovely to look at. He wasn't nearly as big or as muscular as a good stock Qunari male; his skin was pale and didn't have the same metallic sheen she was used to seeing. His hair was as black as the obsidian she was used to working with for the dreadnought cannons.

However, the more of him she seen, especially after he was released and, obviously, gained back the weight he lost while in the jail, the more handsome he became in her eyes.

She would brush out her long hair, no longer white due to the filth in the cell, in an attempt to make herself look more presentable. She caught herself on more than one occasion wondering why she even bothered. The Qun did not allow for sexual attraction to meld with emotional attraction. It was forbidden. If there was an urge of lust there were others who dealt with that particular need.

It was a long way back to the tribe and basalit-an Kerrin Donnegal was the only one who was showing her any bit of kindness.

She growled in frustration and tried to return to the Numbers.

_Tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap…_ she rapped the tips of her horns against the wall, feeling the vibrations shake loose the impure thoughts which began to consume her mind.

"Adaar," that gentle, soft voice called to her.

Her eyes flared open and she found herself rushing toward the door. Her heart skipped a beat. Fingers trembled with anxiety as she gripped to the bars.

"Kadan," she whispered then bit down on her lips when she realized she had said the word out loud. Her sight dropped down to the floor.

"I brought you this. It's a little bit of stew. I figured you were getting tired of bread," he spoke in an apologetic tone. "Um, I, er, do you eat meat? I didn't know if your religion allowed for it…" he was immediately cut off when the narrow mug full of the lukewarm stew was taken from his hands.

Adaar quickly forgot her manners and devoured most of the mug's contents. There was meat! Good meat! And vegetables! It was the most delicious thing she had eaten in ages. She wiped her gravy-coated mouth on her forearm and politely belched.

"Thank you!" she sighed with satisfaction and finished the remainder before handing the cup back. Her eyes met Kerrin's. There was a sudden jumping in her gut, a rush of heat that radiated from the top of her head clear down to her knees. It could've been the stew.

Kerrin smiled and held the mug close to his heart. There was something else different about him, she realized. His hair had been pulled back from his face into a tight, neat bun. He also wore a shirt that showed off the tight musculature of his chest and arms. Formidable for a human male his age, she thought.

"I can bring more later," he offered. "The bailiff is giving me a little bit of spending money to use for things like food and clothes while I'm still working here. It's not going against the bail, so don't worry. He said to consider it a bonus. So, I made some stew this morning. I was getting tired of cheap meat pies and tavern gruel. Did you like it?"

Adaar felt the corners of her mouth lift and pull her lips open to reveal her teeth. A smile, a very rare one, lit up her face. She nodded and met her eyes with his.

"Yes," she nodded.

"Oh, good!" Kerrin seemed to bounce with happiness. "Good. I, er, I'll just go get started for the day. I shall return this evening with more. Oh, and, just to let you know, Bailiff Goffrek said that there's about a week's worth of work left and then your bail will be paid."

Her smile faded but was replaced by a look of surprise. She delicately gripped to the cell bars and stepped up to Kerrin as close as she could.

"A week? And then I'm free?"

Kerrin swallowed loudly and glanced up at Adaar.

"Y-yes. You won't have to stay in there much longer. And then you can," he took a deep breath and tried to smile. "You can go home. And so can I."

"Where is it you call home?" she asked.

"Wycome. It's not far from here. A few days journey. I'm anxious to return," his voice fell into a hush.

"Hey, Donnegal!" the current guard on duty barked. "I think you've spent enough time talking to the ox!"

Kerrin's eyes narrowed to cold, black slits as he glanced back at the obnoxious man. "I swear to it, that if I didn't have a criminal record and wasn't in the company of other men of local law enforcement, I would punch him square in his ugly nose for calling you that."

Adaar backed away, chin held high with pride.

"Go on, Kerrin," she nodded toward the block door.

"I'll be back later, before the end of the day, if that is alright with you," he smiled with hope.

A stiff nod was her response. She watched him back away and head down the hallway out of her sight. Slowly, she dropped to her knees, head against the wall, and continued where her meditations were left off.

_One, one one. One, one, two. One, two, two..._

…..

He was happy and yet sad. It felt good to be helping someone else but when he thought about Adaar walking away and never seeing her again he felt a tightness in his throat. He held the mug of warmed stew in his hands as though it was a precious stone. He walked down the stairs and opened the door to the cell block she was held in, halting to a dead stop when he heard the sound of a leather flail slapping against someone's back.

At first, for a second, he didn't pay it much attention. Punishment within the jailhouse was common. But then he heard the harsh sound of a feminine voice gasping in pain.

He started to run down the hall, contents of the mug spilling to the floor as his hand around it slacked. When he reached Adaar's cell his body tensed with pure anger. The guard from before, a detestable man named Farnham, was standing over her, bloodied flog in his fist. Adaar was lying on the floor, curled into a tight ball. Her back was covered in deep, angry lines that seeped dark red blood.

"What do you think you are doing?!" Kerrin shouted when he finally found his voice.

Farnham turned around, realized he had been caught, and gave him a sneer.

"So fucking protective over your bitch ox!" he dug his boot into her swollen shoulder and began to walk to the cell door, dagger drawn out. "She's not even worth my time. That pussy's probably filled with poison anyway."

Kerrin shook with rage as the guard walked away. He dropped to his knees and held out his hand in hopes of reaching Adaar. She was too far away to touch.

"Adaar, I- can you… are you alright? How badly did he hurt you?"

Tears filled his eyes as he watched her body tremble from the shock of pain.

"My wrist is broken," she murmured. "He tried to… to take me. I fought him. My body is sacred. He will not desecrate it with his filth."

"I will speak to Bailiff Goffrek. He will hear how one of his guards harmed a prisoner."

There was a long pause before she spoke again. "You will do no such thing, Kadan. Go on about your business. I will heal."

He choked on his tears, angry that he hadn't come sooner, that he couldn't do anything but watch her suffer and bleed.

"I'm- I'll stay down here tonight and make sure he doesn't return."

There was no response.

Kerrin pressed his forehead against the rust-studded bars and breathed in sharply. His withheld sobs caused his throat to catch and his breath to shake his shoulders.

"Adaar, please, allow me to stay here and keep watch."

Finally, after what felt like ages, she spoke one word to him. "Stay."

He settled next to the bars, his head leaning against the gap, and continued to watch her fight the pain. The smell of spoiled hay, urine and shit, and Adaar's iron-rich blood suffocated him. With no complaints or even making any gasps for air he continued to sit next to the cell. He whispered what little bits of the Chant of Light he remembered from attending temple services. He was no Chantry member of the least bit but he could at least pray in his own way. The Chant gave way to his own begging to the Maker, Andraste, or any god who would listen to his plea.

"Don't let her die," he whispered against his clasped palms. "Please, don't let her die. She doesn't deserve this."

He realized that he had been awake all night long when he could see peeks of sunlight creeping through the edge of the cell block door. The sound of someone approaching made him stand to his feet. He was prepared to fight if it was Farnham.

He unclenched his fists when he saw Goffrek stepping down the hall.

"There you are. Why are you-" he stopped when he glanced into the cell and saw Adaar on the floor. Her back no longer bled but the great, swollen welts spoke in volumes. "What in Andraste's Name happened here?"

"She was attacked by-"

"No one important enough to be named," she rasped. Slowly, she sat up and retied the blood-stained sash around her chest, wincing as the fabric touched the cuts.

"But, Adaar, you were nearly beaten to death!" Kerrin shook his head in disbelief. "He must be brought to justice!"

"And he shall. But not at this time."

"Isn't there something that can be done?" he asked the bailiff.

Goffrek scratched his head and shrugged. "Nothing I can do if she won't give a name. I'll go after a physician and see if they can at least put a salve or something on her wounds. Stay here and keep an eye on her." He gave Kerrin a small dagger and directed him to "use it with caution" before heading for the door.

"How do you feel?" Kerrin asked then winced at how terrible the question was out loud. "Maker help me, I'm sorry. That was awful of me. I just… are you going to be alright? I can bring you food and water once Goffrek returns. Can you eat?"

"I will continue to exist, I believe. And you do not need to worry over me."

He flipped the dagger around clumsily before shoving it through his belt.

"Right, then."

"You were whispering last night," she reflected in a quiet tone. "You were praying to your gods?"

"Only one god. The Maker. Why do you ask?"

"Do you think your god cares for an abomination such as me?"

"An abomination? You're not an abom- uh, wh-why wouldn't He?"

"If I had died would you have lost your faith? Perhaps some humans would pray in happiness if I didn't exist."

Kerrin gripped the bars and regarded her with open sadness.

"I don't know but I don't think I'd be singing His praises if you had. I- you, er, you are a good person, Adaar. Those who look at you and can't see past your horns or, well, the fact that you're a Qunari, are fools. They don't deserve to know you."

"Do you suppose those in your village, this Wycome, would accept a Qunari to live among them?"

"I- I don't know. I would certainly defend you against anyone who dared say a negative word. I thought you said you wanted to return to your tribe."

Adaar turned and stared at him with wild and wide eyes. "There is a sickness beneath my skin. I am growing cold."

"You- you're not feeling well? Should I go see if Goffrek is on his way back?"

With a low moan, Adaar toppled down to the floor and started to shake violently.

"Oh, no…" he whispered in fear. "No! Adaar! Adaar!" He feebly fought with the cell door's lock but couldn't pick it open with the dagger's point. The only thing he could do was watch helplessly as she seized from the fever.

"Please, don't leave me…"


End file.
